POCASIOI  LISSo 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

Microsoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/collegeentrancerOOnewyrich 


ECLECTIC  ENGLISH   CLASSICS 


COLLEGE 

ENTRANCE  REQUIREMENTS 

IN  ENGLISH 

I9OI-I9O5 


BURKE'S   CONCILIATION  WITH   COLONIES 

SHAKESPEARE'S  MACBETH 

MILTON'S  MINOR  POEMS 

MACAULAY'S  ADDISON 

MACAULAY'S  MILTON 


NEW  YORK  .   :    .  CINCINNATI  -   ;    •  CHICAGO 
AMERICAN    BOOK    COMPANY 


ECLECTIC  ENGLISH  CLASSICS 


CONCILIATION 


WITH   THE 


AMERICAN   COLONIES 


BY 

EDMUND  BURKE 


NEW  YORK    •:•     CINCINNATI     •:•    CHICAGO 

AMERICAN    BOOK    COMPANY 


EDUCAIIOH  LIBH. 


Copyright,  1895,  by 
American  Book  Companv, 

BURKE  ON  CONCILIATION. 
W.    P.   I 


INTRODUCTION. 


Edmund  Burke  was  bom  in  Dublin,  probably  on  January  12, 
1729,  though  there  is  some  dispute  about  this  date.  He  passed 
his  early  school  days  in  a  town  not  far  from  his  birthplace,  under 
the  tutorship  of  Abraham  Shackleton,  a  Quaker  schoolmaster  of 
rare  ability  and  moral  worth,  who  had  considerable  influence  in 
molding  Burke's  character.  One  characteristic  which  clung  to 
him  through  hfe  Burke  manifested  at  an  early  age  —  when  others 
were  at  play  he  was  always  at  work.  He  entered  Trinity  Col- 
lege, DubHn,  in  1743,  and  graduated  in  1748.  Much  of  his  time 
at  this  period  he  spent  in  the  libraries,  gathering  a  store  of  useful 
information  on  many  subjects  which,  later  in  life,  proved  to  him  a 
mine  of  intellectual  wealth. 

Burke*s  father  was  a  sohcitor,  and  Edmund  prepared  to  follow 
in  his  footsteps;  but,  at  the  critical  moment,  his  distaste  for  the 
law  as  a  profession  led  him  to  abandon  this  career.  He  was,  in 
fact,  strongly  attracted  to  literature,  and  he  determined  to  adopt 
it  as  his  calling.  His  father,  indignant  at  this  course,  and  an- 
gered at  the  overthrow  of  his  most  cherished  plans,  withdrew  his 
allowance,  and  left  his  son  to  shift  for  himself  in  that  most  pre- 
carious of  all  callings.  This  was  in  1755,  and  for  the  next  year 
or  so  we  hear  little  of  Burke's  doings.     In  1756  he  married  Miss 

^750287 


6  INTRODUCTION. 

Nugent,  the  daughter  of  his  physician,  and  in  his  married  life  he 
must  have  been  pecuharly  fortunate,  for  he  tells  us  himself  that 
every  care  vanished  the  moment  he  entered  under  his  own  roof. 
Just  about  this  time  he  published  anonymously  his  first  book,  "  A 
Vindication  of  Natural  Society,"  —  a  clever  imitation  of  one  of 
Lord  Bolingbroke's  works  against  Christianity.  Burke's  design 
was  to  prove  the  absurdity  of  Bolingbroke's  arguments  by  show- 
ing that  they  applied  with  equal  force  to  civilization,  and  that,  if 
carried  out  to  their  logical  conclusion,  we  must  deduce  that  so- 
ciety is  an  evil,  and  the  savage  state  the  only  one  in  which  virtue 
and  happiness  are  possible.  But  so  closely  was  the  satire  veiled, 
and  so  perfect  was  the  imitation  of  Bolingbroke's  style,  that  many 
of  the  best  critics  of  the  day  firmly  believed  that  the  "Vindication" 
came  from  the  pen  of  Bolingbroke  himself,  and  that  the  argu- 
ments and  conclusions  were  written  in  all  seriousness.  When  we 
reflect  that  Bolingbroke  at  this  time  stood  at  the  very  summit 
of  fame  as  a  master  of  style,  we  perceive  that  Burke  had  attained 
no  mean  insight  into  the  arts  of  literary  composition.  A  few 
months  later  he  published  an  essay  on  "  The  SubHme  and  the 
Beautiful,"  which  was  received  with  much  applause.  Perhaps 
the  greatest  good  that  resulted  to  Burke  from  these  writings  was 
the  acquaintance  with  his  brother  authors  to  which  they  led,  and 
the  admission  they  gave  him  to  the  literary  clubs  of  the  day. 

In  1759  Burke  was  engaged  in  collecting  details  of  current 
events  for  a  periodical  called  "  The  Annual  Register."  In  this 
connection  he  became  acquainted  with  men  in  public  life,  and 
among  others  with  William  Gerard  Hamilton.  In  1761  Hamil- 
ton went  to  Ireland  as  secretary  to  Lord  Halifax,  and  Burke 
accompanied  him.  In  1763  Hamilton,  who  found  Burke's  ser- 
vices invaluable,  procured  him  a  pension  of  ;^30o  from  the  Irish 


INTRODUCTION.  7 

Treasury.  When  Burke  found,  however,  that  in  return  for  this 
benefit  Hamilton  expected  him  to  bind  himself  body  and  soul  to 
his  service  and  to  cast  aside  all  loftier  aims,  he  threw  up  the 
pension  and  severed  his  connection  with  this  narrow-minded 
man.  Not  long  thereafter,  in  1765,  Lord  Rockingham  was  ap- 
pointed prime  minister,  and  Burke  became  his  private  secretary 
and,  from  that  time  on,  his  most  loyal  and  devoted  friend. 

Now  began  Burke's  political  career,  and  that  rare  opportunity 
for  good  to  his  country  and  to  the  world  at  large  of  which  he  so 
well  availed  himself.  We  shall  trace  that  career  here  in  the 
briefest  compass,  for  we  are  concerned  now  only  with  its  outcome 
in  his  political  writings. 

He  was  returned  in  1765  as  a  member  of  Parliament  for  the 
borough  of  Wendover,  and  in  January,  1766,  he  made  his  opening 
speech,  an  argument  favoring  the  petition  sent  to  Parliament  by 
the  Stamp- Act  Congress  in  America.  "  An  Irishman,  Mr.  Burke, 
has  sprung  up  in  the  House  of  Commons,"  said  one  of  his  con- 
temporaries, "  who  has  astonished  everybody  with  the  power  of 
his  eloquence  and  his  comprehensive  knowledge  in  all  our  exterior 
and  internal  politics  and  commercial  interests."  He  represented 
Wendover  until  1774,  when  he  was  returned  from  Bristol,  a  city 
at  that  time  second  in  importance  only  to  London  itself.  He  sat 
in  Parliament  as  the  representative  of  Bristol  until  1780,  and 
thereafter  for  the  town  of  Malton,  which  he  continued  to  repre- 
sent for  the  remainder  of  his  parliamentary  career.  During  this 
time  his  zeal  for  his  country,  and  his  love  of  virtue,  justice,  and 
good  government  showed  themselves  in  a  number  of  speeches 
which,  by  reason  of  their  enduring  literary  qualities  and  the  fire 
of  eloquence  which  pervades  them,  are  to-day  regarded  as 
classics. 


8  INTRODUCTION. 

These  were  troublous  times  in  England  as  well  as  in  Amer- 
ica. It  may  be  that  the  conflict  for  American  independence  was 
bound  to  arise  sooner  or  later,  that  no  conciliation  or  concession 
on  the  part  of  England  could  have  repressed  that  deep  longing 
for  unrestrained  freedom  which  was  made  manifest  during  the  war 
for  American  independence ;  but  the  thing  which  above  all  others 
nourished  the  seed  and  fertilized  the  ground,  and  hastened  the 
growth  from  a  mere  germ  to  its  fullest  development,  was  corrupt 
government  in  England. 

No  one  saw  this  more  clearly  than  Burke,  and  no  one  more 
courageously  raised  the  warning  cry.  In  1770  he  wrote  his 
"  Thoughts  on  the  Cause  of  the  Present  Discontents,"  a  master- 
piece in  which  he  attempted  to  paint  in  clearest  colors  the  evils 
that  had  attacked  Parliament  by  the  growth  of  royal  influence. 

In  1774,  1775,  and  1777  appeared  his  famous  speeches  on  the 
American  question  —  the  "  Speech  on  American  Taxation,"  the 
"  Speech  on  Conciliation  with  America,"  and  the  "  Letter  to  the 
Sheriffs  of  Bristol."  His  keen  foresight  and  indefatigable  labors 
in  search  of  truth  enabled  him  to  see  the  situation  in  its  fullest 
light,  and  in  all  its  bearings.  Others  there  were  who,  through 
love  of  justice  and  humanity,  favored  a  more  generous  policy  on 
the  part  of  England  toward  her  colonies  in  America ;  but  none 
among  the  English  saw  so  plainly  as  did  he  the  outcome  toward 
which  the  English  spirit  was  tending.  Not  for  a  moment  did 
he  shrink  from  his  duty.  He  knew  the  members  of  Parliament 
with  whom  he  was  dealing,  and  he  knew  that  arguments  based 
on  sentiment  or  abstract  ideas  of  right  would  have  no  force.  He 
spoke  out  in  plain  words,  and  appealed  to  their  reason  and  their 
own  interest.  "  The  question  with  me  is  not  whether  you  have 
a  right  to  render  your  people  miserable,  but  whether  it  is  not  your 


INTRODUCTION.  9 

interest  to  make  them  happy."  Had  his  hearers  been  less  cor- 
rupt, had  they  been  but  a  Httle  less  blinded  by  their  personal  in- 
terests in  respect  to  the  public  welfare,  these  speeches  must  have 
had  their  desired  effect.  Burke  labored  unceasingly  to  root  out 
this  corruption  and  to  reform  English  politics.  In  his  "  Speech 
on  Economic  Reform,"  in  1780,  he  gives  us  a  clear  insight  into 
the  evils  existing  at  that  time  in  the  relations  between  the  Court 
and  the  House  of  Commons. 

In  return  for  all  this  disinterested  service,  and  in  recognition 
of  his  marvelous  executive  ability,  we  might  well  expect  to  see 
him  filling  one  of  the  highest  positions  the  government  had  to  be- 
stow. And  yet  he  was  never  admitted  into  the  Cabinet,  nor  did 
he  ever  hold  any  office  above  the  rather  subordinate  one  of  pay- 
master—  not  even  when  his  own  friends  and  the  party  which 
owed  everything  to  his  efforts  and  ability  came  into  power. 
There  have  been  many  attempts  to  explain  this  omission  by  his 
poverty,  by  his  Irish  birth  and  family  connections,  and  by  his 
sympathies  with  the  Roman  Catholics  at  a  time  when  they  were 
scarcely  tolerated;  but  none  of  these  causes  seem  adequate  to 
account  for  such  flagrant  neglect,  and,  in  truth,  the  matter  has 
never  been  explained. 

The  Rockingham  ministry  had  been  dissolved  in  1766,  to  be 
succeeded  in  turn  by  the  ministries  of  Chatham  and  Grafton,  and 
then  by  that  of  Lord  North,  who  remained  in  power  from  1770 
to  1782,  and  who  was  largely  responsible  for  the  stringent  measures 
against  America.  With  the  surrender  of  Comwallis  at  Yorktown, 
Lord  North's  power  came  to  an  end,  and  Burke's  friend.  Lord 
Rockingham,  once  more  became  prime  minister.  He  lived  for 
only  two  months,  and  was  succeeded  in  office  by  Lord  Shelbume, 
who  represented  the  Whig  party  and  all  the  principles  for  which 


lO  INTRODUCTION, 

Burke  had  so  strenuously  fought.  To  be  sure,  Shelburne  was 
personally  objectionable  to  Burke;  but  that  does  not  excuse  the 
latter  from  withdrawing  his  allegiance,  and,  least  of  all,  for  lend- 
ing his  support  to  Lord  North  —  the  man  who,  during  his  twelve 
years*  previous  ministry,  had  been  responsible  for  many  of  the 
evils  which  Burke  had  done  so  much  to  reform.  Lord  North  re- 
mained in  power  only  eight  months,  and  with  him  Burke  with- 
drew from  his  office  of  paymaster,  never  to  return. 

He  now  devoted  himself  to  a  consideration  of  the  English 
misrule  in  India  —  a  question  in  which  he  had  for  some  time 
manifested  an  active  interest.  The  result  of  his  study  was  given 
to  the  world  in  ''  The  Nabob  of  Arcot's  Debts,"  and  the  *'  Im- 
peachment of  Warren  Hastings."  The  trial  of  Warren  Hastings, 
Governor  General  of  India,  for  crimes  and  misdemeanors,  dragged 
on  for  six  weary  years,  and  in  the  end  he  was  acquitted;  but 
Burke's  eloquent  exposure  and  denunciation  of  the  evils  in  India 
were  not  delivered  in  vain;  for  although  the  man  he  accused 
was  not  condemned,  the  system  he  opposed  received  its  death- 
blow. "  If  I  were  to  call  for  a  reward,"  Burke  said,  "  it  would 
be  for  the  services  in  which  for  fourteen  years  I  showed  the  most 
industry  and  had  the  least  success.  I  mean  the  affairs  in  India. 
They  are  those  on  which  I  value  myself  the  most  —  most  for  the 
importance;  most  for  the  labor;  most  for  the  judgment;  most  for 
the  constancy  and  perseverance  in  the  pursuit." 

We  have  now  to  consider  the  last  period  of  Burke^s  life  — 
that  of  the  French  Revolution.  Burke  was  essentially  conserva- 
tive. "What  he  valued  was  the  deep-seated  order  of  systems 
that  worked  by  the  accepted  uses,  opinions,  beliefs,  prejudices  of 
a  community."  He  watched  with  an  ever-growing  distrust  the 
rise  of  those  forces  in  France  which  were  to  destroy  this  order, 


INTRODUCTION,  li 

and  in  the  "  Reflections  on  the  Revolution  in  France,"  which 
appeared  in  November,  1790,  he  gave  voice  to  his  feeHngs  in 
almost  frenzied  tones.  For  the  first  time  in  his  Hfe  he  did  not 
study  thoroughly  the  subject  he  had  in  hand.  He  saw  but  one 
side  of  the  question;  he  wished  to  see  no  other.  The  dangers  of 
the  new  system  blinded  him  to  the  disorders  of  the  old,  and  he 
had  nothing  but  scorn  and  invective  to  hurl  against  the  revolu- 
tionists ;  not  one  word  of  sympathy  for  their  wrongs  or  of  excuse 
for  their  actions.  The  influence  of  this  work  was  tremendous. 
"  With  a  long  resounding  blast  on  his  golden  trumpet,  Burke  had 
unfurled  a  new  flag,  and  half  the  nation  hurried  to  rally  to  it — 
that  half  which  had  scouted  his  views  on  America,  which  had 
mocked  his  ideas  on  religious  toleration,  and  which  a  moment 
before  had  hated  and  reviled  him  beyond  all  men  living  for  his 
fierce  tenacity  in  the  impeachment  of  Warren  Hastings." 

Burke's  attitude  brought  him  much  honor,  but  still  more  humili- 
ation. The  crowned  heads  of  Europe  applauded  him,  but  his 
friends  one  by  one  dropped  away.  The  climax  came  when  he 
renounced  the  friendship  of  his  lifelong  companion,  Charles  Fox, 
because  the  latter  could  not  follow  him  in  his  bitter  denuncia- 
tion of  the  French.  This  was  in  179 1.  In  August  of  the  same 
year  he  wrote  an  "  Appeal  from  the  New  to  the  Old  Whigs,"  in 
which  he  tried  to  defend  his  views  on  the  French  Revolution,  and 
to  vindicate  himself  against  the  charge  of  having  renounced  his 
most  avowed  principles.  From  this  time  on  he  devoted  himself 
to  the  French  situation,  and  he  went  so  far  as  to  urge  the  English 
to  interfere  and  wage  war  with  France. 

In  1794  Burke  retired  altogether  from  Parliament.  The  king 
and  the  Tories,  well  pleased  at  his  attitude  toward  the  French, 
were  making  arrangements  to  elevate  him  to  the  peerage  when, 


12  INTRODUCTION, 

in  August,  1794,  he  was  completely  prostrated  by  the  sudden  death 
of  his  son  Richard,  to  whom  he  was  deeply  attached. 

The  question  of  the  peerage  was  dropped,  but  the  king,  in  re- 
turn for  his  long  years  of  service,  granted  him  a  pension.  As 
this  pension  had  not  been  sanctioned  by  Parliament,  the  Duke  of 
Bedford  assailed  it  on  the  plea  of  corruption.  In  his  "  Letter  to 
a  Noble  Lord,"  Burke  repudiated  this  charge  and  showed  how 
well  he  had  earned  this  slight  reward  for  long  political  services.   • 

In  1795  he  wrote  his  "Letters  on  a  Regicide  Peace,"  which, 
like  all  his  writings  of  this  period,  are  marked  by  his  undying 
horror  and  hatred  of  the  spirit  of  the  French  Revolution.  After 
the  death  of  his  son  he  had  little  interest  left  in  life,  and  he 
followed  him  to  the  grave  on  July  9,  1797. 

And  now  we  must  consider  what  it  was  in  Burke,  that  raised 
him  from  obscurity  to  a  position  whence  he  influenced  the  whole 
of  Europe;  what  it  was  that  ranked  him  among  orators  with 
Demosthenes  and  Cicero,  among  statesmen  with  Richelieu  and 
Pitt,  and  among  philosophical  thinkers  and  eloquent  writers  with 
the  greatest  men  of  his  time  and  of  all  time.  The  answer  is 
ready  at  hand.  To  great  breadth  of  intellect  he  added  a  strong 
will  and  a  determination  to  gain  a  thorough  knowledge  of  every 
subject  within  his  range.  He  worked  indefsitigably,  and  his 
versatility  was  truly  marvelous.  It  was  difficult  to  find  a  subject 
in  which  he  was  not  as  much  at  home  as  though  it  had  been  his 
specialty.  Add  to  these  qualities  a  strong  moral  character,  which 
led  him  to  unwearied  work  in  the  cause  of  right  and  virtue,  as  he 
conceived  it,  and  we  have  the  elements  of  all  true  success. 

He  had  no  personal  charms  to  recommend  him;  his  gestures 
were  awkward,  his  voice  harsh,  and  his  utterance  displeasing. 


INTRODUCTION,  13 

We  are  even  told  that  one  of  his  listeners  crept  under  a  bench 
to  escape  a  speech  which,  when  published,  he  read  till  it  was 
thumbed  to  rags.  "I  was  not,"  Burke  tells  us  himself,  "swaddled 
and  rocked  and  dandled  into  a  legislator.  I  possessed  not  one 
of  the  qualities,  nor  cultivated  one  of  the  arts,  that  recommend 
men  to  the  favor  and  protection  of  the  great.  I  was  not  made 
for  a  minion  or  a  tool.  As  little  did  I  follow  the  trade  of  win- 
ning the  hearts  by  imposing  on  the  understandings  of  the  people. 
At  every  step  of  my  progress  in  life, — for  in  every  step  was  I 
traversed  and  opposed, —  and  at  every  turnpike  I  met,  I  was 
obliged  to  show  my  passport,  and  again  and  again  to  prove  my 
sole  title  to  the  honor  of  being  useful  to  my  country,  by  a  proof 
that  I  was  not  wholly  unacquainted  with  its  laws  and  the  whole 
system  of  its  interests  both  abroad  and  at  home;  otherwise  no 
rank,  no  toleration  even,  fot  me." 

'And  so,  inch  by  inch,  he  raised  himself  to  the  very  pinnacle 
of  fame.  "  No  man  of  sense,"  said  Dr.  Johnson,  "  could  meet 
Mr.  Burke  by  accident  under  a  gateway  without  being  convinced 
that  he  was  the  first  man  in  England." 

The  following  characterization  is  taken  from  John  Morley's 
excellent  "  Life  of  Burke  ":  "  Opinion  is  slowly,  but  without  re- 
action, settling  down  to  the  verdict  that  Burke  is  one  of  the 
abiding  names  in  our  history,  not  because  he  either  saved  Europe 
or  destroyed  the  Whig  party;  but  because  he  added  to  the  per- 
manent considerations  of  wise  political  thought,  and  to  the  max- 
ims of  wise  practice  in  great  affairs,  and  because  he  imprints  him- 
self upon  us  with  a  magnificence  and  elevation  of  expression, 
that  places  him  among  the  highest  masters  of  literature,  in  one 
of  its  highest  and  most  commanding  senses.  .  .  .  .  His  pas- 
sion appears  hopelessly  fatal  to  success  in  the  pursuit  of  Truth, 


14  INTRODUCTION. 

who  does  not  usually  reveal  herself  to  followers  thus  inflamed. 
His  ornate  style  appears  fatal  to  the  cautious  and  precise  method 
of  statement  suitable  to  matter  which  is  not  known  at  all  unless 
it  is  known  distinctly.  Yet  the  natural  ardor  which  impelled 
Burke  to  clothe  his  judgments  in  glowing  and  exaggerated 
phrases,  is  one  secret  of  his  power  over  us,  because  it  kindles  in 
those  who  are  capable  of  that  generous  infection  a  respondent 
interest  and  sympathy.  But  more  than  this,  the  reader  is  speedily 
conscious  of  the  precedence  in  Burke  of  the  facts  of  morality  and 
conduct,  of  the  many  interwoven  affinities  of  human  affection  and 
historical  relation,  over  the  unreal  necessities  of  mere  abstract 
logic.  Burke's  mind  was  full  of  the  matter  of  great  truths,  copi- 
ously enriched  from  the  fountain  of  generous  and  many-colored 
feeling.  He  thought  about  life  as  a  whole,  with  all  its  infirmities 
and  all  its  pomps.  With  none  of  the  mental  exclusiveness  of  the 
moralist  by  profession,  he  fills  every  page  with  solemn  reference 
and  meaning ;  with  none  of  the  mechanical  bustle  of  the  common 
politician,  he  is  everywhere  conscious  of  the  mastery  of  laws,  in- 
stitutions, and  government  over  the  character  and  happiness  of 
men.  Besides  thus  diffusing  a  strong  light  over  the  awful  tides 
of  human  circumstance,  Burke  has  the  sacred  gift  of  inspiring 
men  to  use  a  grave  diligence  in  caring  for  high  things,  and  in 
making  their  lives  at  once  rich  and  austere.  Such  a  part  in  liter- 
ature is  indeed  high And  we  do  not  dissent  when 

Macaulay,  after  reading  Burke's  works  over  again,  exclaims, 
'  How  admirable !     The  greatest  man  since  Milton  ! '  " 

We,  as  Americans,  owe  to  Edmund  Burke  a  special  debt  of 
gratitude  for  his  zeal  and  labors  in  our  cause,  and  for  the  three 
speeches  that  should  be  placed  on  our  shelves,  side  by  side  with 
those  of  our  own  great  political  writers. 


INTROD  UCTION.  1 5 

To  quote  Mr.  Morley  once  more :  "  Of  all  Burke's  writings 
none  are  so  fit  to  secure  unqualified  and  unanimous  admiration 
as  the  three  pieces  on  this  momentous  struggle :  the  *  Speech  on 
American  Taxation'  (April  19,  1774);  the  ^Speech  on  Concili- 
ation with  America'  (March  22,  1775);  and  the  *  Letter  to  the 

Sheriffs  of  Bristol'  (1777) It  is  no  exaggeration  to 

say  that  they  compose  the  most  perfect  manual  in  our  literature, 
or  in  any  literature,  for  one  who  approaches  the  study  of  public 
affairs,  whether  for  knowledge  or  for  practice.  They  are  an  ex- 
ample without  fault  of  all  the  qualities  which  the  critic,  whether 
a  theorist  or  an  actor,  of  great  poUtical  situations  should  strive 
by  night  and  by  day  to  possess.  If  the  subject  with  which  they 
deal  were  less  near  than  it  is  to  our  interests  and  affections  as  free 
citizens,  these  three  performances  would  still  abound  in  the  les- 
sons of  an  incomparable  political  method.  We  should  still  have 
everything  to  learn  from  the  author's  treatment;  the  vigorous 
grasp  of  masses  of  compressed  detail,  the  wide  illumination  from 
great  principles  of  human  experience,  the  strong  and  masculine 
feeling  for  the  two  great  political  ends  of  Justice  and  Freedom, 
the  large  and  generous  interpretation  of  expediency,  the  morality, 
the  vision,  the  noble  temper.  If  ever  in  the  fullness  of  time, — 
and  surely  the  fates  of  men  and  literature  cannot  have  it  other- 
wise,—  Burke  becomes  one  of  the  half-dozen  names  of  established 
and  universal  currency  in  education  and  in  common  books,  rising 
above  the  waywardness  of  literary  caprice  or  intellectual  fashions, 
as  Shakespeare  and  Milton  and  Bacon  rise  above  it,  it  will  be  the 
mastery,  the  elevation,  the  wisdom,  of  these  far  shining  discourses 
in  which  the  world  will,  in  an  especial  degree,  recognize  the  com- 
bination of  sovereign  gifts  with  beneficent  uses." 


CONCILIATION   WITH   THE 
AMERICAN  COLONIES/ 


I  HOPE,  Sir,  that,  notwithstanding  the  austerity  of  the  Chair, 
your  good  nature  will  incline  you  to  some  degree  of  indulgence 
towards  human  frailty.  You  will  not  think  it  unnatural,  that  those 
who  have  an  object  depending,  which  strongly  engages  their 
hopes  and  fears,  should  be  somewhat  inclined  to  superstition.  As 
I  came  into  the  House  full  of  anxiety  about  the  event  of  my 
motion,  I  found,  to  my  infinite  surprise,  that  the  grand  penal  bill, 
by  which  we  had  passed  sentence  on  the  trade  and  sustenance  of 
America,  is  to  be  returned  to  us  from  the  other  House.^  I  do 
confess,  I  could  not  help  looking  on  this  event  as  a  fortunate 
omen.  I  look  upon  it  as  a  sort  of  providential  favor;  by  which 
we  are  put  once  more  in  possession  of  our  deliberative  capacity, 
upon  a  business  so  very  questionable  in  its  nature,  so  very  uncer- 
tain in  its  issue.     By  the  return  of  this  bill,  which  seemed  to  have 

1  This  speech  was  delivered  by  Edmund  Burke  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons, March  22,  1775,  ^^^  moving  his  resolutions  for  conciliation  with  the 
colonies. 

2  House  of  Lords.  A  few  weeks  previous,  Lord  North,  at  that  time 
Prime  Minister  of  England,  had  proposed  an  act  to  restrain  the  trade  and 
commerce  of  the  provinces  of  Massachusetts  Bay  and  New  Hampshire,  the 
colonies  of  Connecticut  and  Rhode  Island,  and  Providence  Plantation,  in 
North  America,  to  Great  Britain,  Ireland,  and  the  British  Islands  in  the 
West  Indies ;  and  to  prohibit  such  provinces  and  colonies  from  carrying  on 
any  fishery  on  the  banks  of  Newfoundland,  and  other  places  therein  men- 
tioned, under  certain  conditions  and  limitations.  Burke  had  spoken  with 
great  indignation  against  the  injustice  of  this  bill. 


1 8  EDMUND  BURKE   ON  CONCILIATION 

taken  its  flight  forever,  we  are,  at  this  very  instant,  nearly  as  free 
to  choose  a  plan  for  our  American  government  as  we  were  on  the 
first  day  of  the  session.  If,  Sir,  we  incline  to  the  side  of  concilia- 
tion, we  are  not  at  all  embarrassed  (unless  we  please  to  make 
ourselves  so)  by  any  incongruous  mixture  of  coercion  and  re- 
straint. We  are  therefore  called  upon,  as  it  were  by  a  superior 
warning  voice,  again  to  attend  to  America;  to  attend  to  the 
whole  of  it  together ;  and  to  review  the  subject  with  an  unusual 
degree  of  care  and  calmness. 

Surely  it  is  an  awful  subject ;  or  there  is  none  so  on  this  side  of" 
the  grave.  When  I  first  had  the  honor  of  a  seat  in  this  House, 
the  affairs  of  that  continent  pressed  themselves  upon  us,  as  the 
most  important  and  most  delicate  object  of  parliamentary  atten- 
tion. My  little  share  in  this  great  deliberation  oppressed  me.  I 
found  myself  a  partaker  in  a  very  high  trust ;  and  having  no  sort 
of  reason  to  rely  on  the  strength  of  my  natural  abilities  for  the 
proper  execution  of  that  trust,  I  was  obliged  to  take  more  than 
common  pains  to  instruct  myself  in  everything  which  relates  to 
our  colonies.  I  was  not  less  under  the  necessity  of  forming  some 
fixed  ideas  concerning  the  general  policy  of  the  British  empire. 
Something  of  this  sort  seemed  to  be  indispensable,  in  order, 
amidst  so  vast  a  fluctuation  of  passions  and  opinions,  to  concenter 
my  thoughts,  to  ballast  my  conduct,  to  preserve  me  from  being 
blown  about  by  every  wind  of  fashionable  doctrine.  I  really  did 
not  think  it  safe,  or  manly,  to  have  fresh  principles  to  seek  upon 
every  fresh  mail  which  should  arrive  from  America. 

At  that  period!  I  had  the  fortune  to  find  myself  in  perfect  con- 
currence with  a  large  majority  in  this  House.  Bowing  under  that 
high  authority,  and  penetrated  with  the  sharpness  and  strength  of 
that  early  impression,  I  have  continued  ever  since,  without  the 
least  deviation,  in  my  original  sentiments.  Whether  this  be  owing 
to  an  obstinate  perseverance  in  error,  or  to  a  religious  adherence 
to  what  appears  to  me  truth  and  reason,  it  is  in  your  equity 
to  judge. 

Sir,  Parliament  having  an  enlarged  view  of  objects,  made,  during 

1  The  time  of  the  repeal  of  the  Stamp  Act. 


WITH  THE  AMERICAN  COLONIES.  19 

this  interval,  more  frequent  changes  in  their  sentiments  and  their 
conduct,  than  could  be  justified  in  a  particular  person  upon  the 
contracted  scale  of  private  information.  But  though  1  do  not 
hazard  anything  approaching  to  censure  on  the  motives  of  former 
Parliaments  to  all  those  alterations,  one  fact  is  undoubted  —  that 
under  them  the  state  of  America  has  been  kept  in  continual 
agitation.  Everything  administered  as  remedy  to  the  pubHc 
complaint,  if  it  did  not  produce,  was  at  least  followed  by,  an 
heightening  of  the  distemper;  until,  by  a  variety  of  experiments, 
that  important  country  has  been  brought  into  her  present  situation 
—  a  situation  which  I  will  not  miscall,  which  I  dare  not  name, 
which  I  scarcely  know  how  to  comprehend  in  the  terms  of  any 
description. 

In  this  posture.  Sir,  things  stood  at  the  beginning  of  the  session. 
About  that  time,  a  worthy  member  ^  of  great  parliamentary  experi- 
ence, who,  in  the  year  1766,  filled  the  chair  of  the  American 
Committee  with  much  ability,  took  me  aside ;  and,  lamenting  the 
present  Aspect  of  our  politics,  told  me  things  were  come  to  such  a 
pass  that  our  former  methods  of  proceeding  in  the  House  would 
be  no  longer  tolerated.  That  the  public  tribunal  (never  too 
indulgent  to  a  long  and  unsuccessful  opposition)  would  now 
scrutinize  our  conduct  with  unusual  severity.  That  the  very 
vicissitudes  and  shiftings  of  ministerial  measures,  instead  of  con- 
victing their  authors  of  inconstancy  and  want  of  system,  would 
be  taken  as  an  occasion  of  charging  us  with  a  predetermined  dis- 
content which  nothing  could  satisfy,  whilst  we  accused  every 
measure  of  vigor  as  cruel,  and  every  proposal  of  lenity  as  weak 
and  irresolute.  The  public,  he  said,  would  not  have  patience  to 
see  us  play  the  game  out  with  our  adversaries :  we  must  produce 
our  hand.  It  would  be  expected  that  those,  who  for  many  years 
had  been  active  in  such  afiairs,  should  show  that  they  had  formed 
some  clear  and  decided  idea  of  the  principles  of  colony  govern- 
ment ;  and  were  capable  of  drawing  out  something  like  a  platform 
of  the  ground,  which  might  be  laid  for  fu^^nr^  ^nd  permanent 
tranquillity. 

1  Mr.  Rose  Fuller 


20  EDMUND  BURKE   ON  CONCILIATION 

I  felt  the  truth  of  what  my  honorable  friend  represented ;  but  I 
felt  my  situation  too.  His  application  might  have  been  made 
with  far  greater  propriety  to  many  other  gentlemen.  No  man 
was  indeed  ever  better  disposed,  or  worse  quaHfied,  for  such  an 
undertaking  than  myself.  Though  I  gave  so  far  into  his  opinion 
that  I  immediately  threw  my  thoughts  into  a  sort  of  parliamen- 
tary form,  I  was  by  no  means  equally  ready  to  produce  them. 
It  generally  argues  some  degree  of  natural  impotence  of  mind,  or 
some  want  of  knowledge  of  the  world,  to  hazard  plans  of  govern- 
ment except  from  a  seat  of  authority.  Propositions  are  made,  not 
only  ineffectually,  but  somewhat  disreputably,  when  the  minds 
of  men  are  not  properly  disposed  for  their  reception ;  and  for  my 
part,  I  am  not  ambitious  of  ridicule,  not  absolutely  a  candidate 
for  disgrace. 

Besides,  Sir,  to  speak  the  plain  truth,  I  have  in  general  no  very 
exalted  opinion  of  the  virtue  of  paper  government,^  nor  of  any 
politics  in  which  the  plan  is  to  be  wholly  separated  from  the  exe- 
cution. But  when  I  saw  that  anger  and  violence  prevailed  every 
day  more  and  more,  and  that  things  were  hastening  toward  an 
incurable  alienation  of  our  colonies,  I  confess  my  caution  gave 
way.  I  felt  this  as  one  of  those  few  moments  in  which  decorum 
yields  to  a  higher  duty.  Public  calamity  is  a  mighty  leveler ;  and 
there  are  occasions  when  any,  even  the  slightest,  chance  of  doing 
good  must  be  laid  hold  on,  even  by  the  most  inconsiderable  person. 

To  restore  order  and  repose  to  an  empire  so  great  and  so  dis- 
tracted as  ours,  is,  merely  in  the  attempt,  an  undertaking  that 
would  ennoble  the  flights  of  the  highest  genius,  and  obtain  pardon 
for  the  efforts  of  the  meanest  understanding.  Struggling  a  good 
while  with  these  thoughts,  by  degrees  I  felt  myself  more  firm.  I 
derived,  at  length,  some  confidence  from  what  in  other  circum- 
stances usually  produces  timidity.  I  grew  less  anxious,  even  from 
the  idea  of  my  own  insignificance.  For,  judging  of  what  you  are 
by  what  you  ought  to  be,  I  persuaded  myself  that  you  would  not 
reject  a  reasonable  proposition  because  it  had  nothing  but  its 

1  "Paper  government,"  i.e.,  measures  proposed  in  a  bill,  but  not  yet 
carried  out. 


WITH  THE  AMERICAN  COLONIES,  2i 

reason  to  recommend  it.  On  the  other  hand,  being  totally  desti- 
tute of  all  shadow  of  influence,  natural  or  adventitious,  I  was  very- 
sure  that,  if  my  proposition  were  futile  or  dangerous,  if  it  were 
weakly  conceived,  or  improperly  timed,  there  was  nothing  exterior 
to  it  of  power  to  awe,  dazzle,  or  delude  you.  You  will  see  it 
just  as  it  is;  and  you  will  treat  it  just  as  it  deserves. 

The  proposition  is  peace.  Not  peace  through  the  medium  of 
war;  not  peace  to  be  hunted  through  the  labyrinth  of  intricate 
and  endless  negotiations ;  not  peace  to  arise  out  of  universal  dis- 
cord, fomented  from  principle,  in  all  parts  of  the  empire;  not 
peace  to  depend  on  the  juridical  determination  of  perplexing 
questions,  or  the  precise  marking  of  the  shadowy  boundaries  of.  a 
complex  government.  It  is  simple  peace,  sought  in  its  natural 
course, .  and  in  its  ordinary  haunts.  It  is  peace  sought  in  the 
spirit  of  peace,  and  laid  in  principles  purely  pacific.  I  propose, 
by  removing  the  ground  of  the  difference,  and  by  restoring  the 
former  unsuspecti?ig  confidence  of  the  colonies  in  the  mother  country^ 
to  give  permanent  satisfaction  to  your  people,  and  (far  from  a 
scheme  of  ruhng  by  discord)  to  reconcile  them  to  each  other  in 
the  same  act  and  by  the  bond  of  the  very  same  interest  which 
reconciles  them  to  British  government. 

My  idea  is  nothing  more.  Refined  policy  ever  has  been  the 
parent  of  confusion;  and  ever  will  be  so,  as  long  as  the  world  en- 
dures. Plain  good  intention,  which  is  as  easily  discovered  at  the 
first  view  as  fraud  is  surely  detected  at  last,  is,  let  me  say,  of  no 
mean  force  in  the  government  of  mankind.  Genuine  simplicity 
of  heart  is  a  healing  and  cementing  principle.  My  plan,  there- 
fore, being  formed  upon  the  most  simple  grounds  imaginable, 
may  disappoint  some  people  when  they  hear  it.  It  has  nothing 
to  recommend  it  to  the  pruriency  ^  of  curious  ears.  There  is 
nothing  at  all  new  and  captivating  in  it.  It  has  nothing  of  the 
splendor  of  the  project  which  has  been  lately  laid  upon  your 
table  by  the  noble  lord  in  the  blue  ribbon.  2    It  does  not  propose 

1  Eager  desire. 

2  The  blue  ribbon  was  the  badge  of  the  Order  of  the  Garter.  The  refer- 
ence here  is  to  Lord  North,  who  had  been  made  a  knight  of  the  Garter.     He 


2  2  EDMUND  BURKE   ON  CONCILIATION 

to  fill  your  lobby  with  squabbling  colony  agents,  who  will  require 
the  interposition  of  your  mace,i  at  every  instant,  to  keep  the  peace 
amongst  them.  It  does  not  institute  a  magnificent  auction  of 
finance,  where  captivated  provinces  come  to  general  ransom  by 
bidding  against  each  other,  until  you  knock  down  the  hammer, 
and  determine  a  proportion  of  payments  beyond  all  the  powers 
of  algebra  to  equalize  and  settle. 

The  plan  which  I  shall  presume  to  suggest,  derives,  however, 
one  great  advantage  from  the  proposition  and  registry  of  that  no- 
ble lord's  project.  The  idea  of  conciliation  is  admissible.  First, 
the  House,  in  accepting  the  resolution  moved  by  the  noble  lord, 
has  admitted,  notwithstanding  the  menacing  front  of  our  address, 
notwithstanding  our  heavy  bill  of  pains  and  penalties,  that  we 
do  not  think  ourselves  precluded  from  all  ideas  of  free  grace  and 
bounty. 

The  House  has  gone  further ;  it  has  declared  conciHation  ad- 
missible,/r<f2//^//j-  to  any  submission  on  the  part  of  America.  It 
has  even  shot  a  good  deal  beyond  that  mark,  and  has  admitted 
that  the  complaints  of  our  former  mode  of  exerting  the  right  of 
taxation  were  not  wholly  unfounded.  That  right  thus  exerted  is 
allowed  to  have  had  something  reprehensible  in  it  —  something 
unwise,  or  something  grievous;  since,  in  the  midst  of  our  heat 
and  resentment,  we,  of  ourselves,  have  proposed  a  capital  altera- 
tion, and,  in  order  to  get  rid  of  what  seemed  so  very  exception- 
able, have  instituted  a  mode  that  is  altogether  new  —  one  that  is, 
indeed,  wholly  alien  from  all  the  ancient  methods  and  forms  of 
Parhament. 

The  principle  of  this  proceeding  is  large  enough  for  my  purpose.  • 
The  means  proposed  by  the  noble  lord  for  carrying  his  ideas  into 
execution,  I  think,  indeed,  are  very  indifferently  suited  to  the  end; 
and  this  I  shall  endeavor  to  show  you  before  I  sit  down.     But,  for 

had  introduced  a  bill  proposing  that  any  province  or  colony  which  should 
make  provision  for  their  common  defense  should  be  exempt  from  taxation. 
This  offer  was  rejected  by  the  colonies. 

1  The  emblem  of  authority  lying  on  the  Speaker's  table ;  hence,  the  ser- 
geant-at-arms  of  th"^  House. 


WITH  THE  AMERICAN  COLONIES,  2$ 

the  present,  I  take  my  ground  on  the  admitted  principle.  I  mean 
to  give  peace.  Peace  impHes  reconciHation ;  and,  where  there 
has  been  a  material  dispute,  reconciliation  does  in  a  manner  al- 
ways imply  concession  on  the  one  part  or  on  the  other.  In  this 
state  of  things,  I  make  no  difficulty  in  affirming  that  the  proposal 
ought  to  originate  from  us.  Great  and  acknowledged  force  is  not 
impaired,  either  in  effect  or  in  opinion,  by  an  unwillingness  to  ex- 
ert itself.  The  superior  power  may*  offer  peace  with  honor  and 
with  safety.  Such  an  offer  from  such  a  power  will  be  attributed 
to  magnanimity.  But  the  concessions  of  the  weak  are  the  con- 
cessions of  fear.  When  such  a  one  is  disarmed,  he  is  wholly  at 
the  mercy  of  his  superior ;  and  he  loses  forever  that  time  and  those 
chances,  which,  as  they  happen  to  all  men,  are  the  strength  and 
resources  of  all  inferior  power. 

The  capital  leading  questions  on  which  you  must  this  day  de- 
cide, are  these  two :  first,  whether  you  ought  to  concede ;  and 
secondly,  what  your  concession  ought  to  be.  On  the  first  of 
these  questions  we  have  gained  (as  I  have  just  taken  the  liberty 
of  observing  to  you)  some  ground.  But  I  am  sensible  that  a 
good  deal  more  is  still  to  be  done.  Indeed,  Sir,  to  enable  us  to 
determine  both  on  the  one  and  the  other  of  these  great  questions 
with  a  firm  and  precise  judgment,  I  think  it  may  be  necessary  to 
consider  distinctly  the  true  nature  and  the  peculiar  circumstances 
of  the  object  which  we  have  before  us.  Because,  after  all  our 
struggle,  whether  we  will  or  not,  we  must  govern  America  accord- 
ing to  that  nature,  and  to  those  circumstances ;  and  not  according 
to  our  own  imaginations ;  nor  according  to  abstract  ideas  of  right ; 
by  no  means  according  to  mere  general  theories  of  government, 
the  resort  to  which  appears  to  me,  in  our  present  situation,  no 
better  than  arrant  trifling.  I  shall  therefore  endeavor,  with  your 
leave,  to  lay  before  you  some  of  the  most  material  of  these  cir- 
cumstances in  as  full  and  as  clear  a  manner  as  I  am  able  to  state 
them. 

The  first  thing  that  we  have  to  consider  with  regard  to  the  na- 
ture of  !he  object  is  —  the  number  of  people  in  the  colonies.  I 
have  taken  for  some  years  a  good  deal  of  pains  on  that  point.     I 


24  EDMUND  BURKE   ON  CONCILIATION 

can  by  no  calculation  justify  myself  in  placing  the  number  below 
two  millions  of  inhabitants  of  our  own  European  blood  and  color; 
besides  at  least  500,000  others,  who  form  no  inconsiderable  part 
of  the  strength  and  opulence  of  the  whole.  This,  Sir,  is,  I  believe, 
about  the  true  number.  There  is  no  occasion  to  exaggerate, 
where  plain  truth  is  of  so  much  weight  and  importance.  But 
whether  I  put  the  present  numbers  too  high  or  too  low  is  a  mat- 
ter of  little  moment.  Such*  is  the  strength  with  which  popula- 
tion shoots  in  that  part  of  the  world,  that,  state  the  numbers  as 
high  as  we  will,  whilst  the  dispute  continues,  the  exaggeration 
ends.  Whilst  we  are  discussing  any  given  magnitude,  they  are 
grown  to  it.  Whilst  we  spend  our  time  in  deliberating  on  the 
mode  of  governing  two  miUions,  we  shall  find  we  have  millions 
more  to  manage.  Your  children  do  not  grow  faster  from  infancy 
to  manhood,  than  they  spread  from  families  to  communities,  and 
from  villages  to  nations. 

I  put  this  consideration  of  the  present  and  the  growing  num- 
bers in  the  front  of  our  deliberation;  because.  Sir,  this  consideration 
will  make  it  evident  to  a  blunter  discernment  than  yours,  that  no 
partial,  narrow,  contracted,  pinched,  occasional  system  will  be  at 
all  suitable  to  such  an  object.  It  will  show  you  that  it  is  not  to 
be  considered  as  one  of  those  minima  1  which  are  out  of  the  eye 
and  consideration  of  the  law;  not  a  paltry  excrescence  of  the 
state ;  not  a  mean  dependent,  who  may  be  neglected  with  little 
damage  and  provoked  with  little  danger.  It  will  prove  that 
some  degree  of  care  and  caution  is  required  in  the  handHng  such 
an  object;  it  will  show  that  you  ought  not,  in  reason,  to  trifle  with 
so  large  a  mass  of  the  interests  and  feelings  of  the  human  race. 
You  could  at  no  time  do  so  without  guilt;  and  be  assured  you  will 
not  be  able  to  do  it  long  with  impunity. 

But  the  population  of  this  country, — the  great  and  growing  pop- 
ulation,—  though  a  very  important  consideration,  will  lose  much 
of  its  weight  if  not  combined  with  other  circumstances.  The  com- 
merce of  your  colonies  is  out  of  all  proportion  beyond  the  num- 

1  Plural  of  the  Latin  adjective  minimum,  meaning  "  of  the  smallest  possi- 
ble amount'*;  hence,  matters  of  no  consequence;  trifles. 


WITH  THE  AMERICAN  COLONIES,  25 

bers  of  the  people.  This  ground  of  their  commerce  indeed  has 
been  trod  some  da)^s  ago,  and  with  great  abiUty,  by  a  distin- 
guished person,  1  at  your  bar.  This  gentleman,  after  thirty-five 
years,  —  it  is  so  long  since  he  first  appeared  at  the  same  place  to 
plead  for  the  commerce  of  Great  Britain,  —  has  come  again  before 
you  to  plead  the  same  cause,  without  any  other  efiect  of  time, 
than  that,  to  the  fire  of  imagination  and  extent  of  erudition  which 
even  then  marked  him  as  one  of  the  first  literary  characters  of  his 
age,  he  has  added  a  consummate  knowledge  in  the  commercial 
interest  of  his  country,  formed  by  a  long  course  of  enlightened 
and  discriminating  experience. 

Sir,  I  should  be  inexcusable  in  coming  after  such  a  person  with 
any  detail,  if  a  great  part  of  the  members  who  now  fill  the  House 
had  not  the  misfortune  to  be  absent  when  he  appeared  at  your 
bar.  Besides,  Sir,  I  propose  to  take  the  matter  at  periods  of  time 
somewhat  different  from  his.  There  is,  if  I  mistake  not,  a  point 
of  view,  from  whence  if  you  will  look  at  this  subject,  it  is  impossi- 
ble that  it  should  not  make  an  impression  upon  you. 

I  have  in  my  hand  two  accounts :  one  a  comparative  state  2  of 
the  export  trade  of  England  to  its  colonies,  as  it  stood  in  the  year 
1704,  and  as  it  stood  in  the  year  1772;  the  other  a  state  of  the 
export  trade  of  this  country  to  its  colonies  alone,  as  it  stood  in 
1772,  compared  with  the  whole  trade  of  England  to  all  parts  of 
the  world  (the  colonies  included)  in  the  year  1704.  They  are 
from  good  vouchers ;  the  latter  period  from  the  accounts  on  your 
table,  the  earlier  from  an  original  manuscript  of  Davenant,  who 
first  established  the  inspector-general's  office,  which  has  been  ever 
since  his  time  so  abundant  a  source  of  parliamentary  information. 

The  export  trade  to  the  colonies  consists  of  three  great 
branches.  The  African,  which,  terminating  almost  wholly  in  the 
colonies,  must  be  put  to  the  account  of  their  commerce;  the 
West  Indian ;  and  the  North  American.  All  these  are  so  inter- 
wbven  that  the  attempt  to  separate  them  would  tear  to  pieces  the 

1  A  Mr.  Glover,  who  had  appeared  before  the  House  in  a  plea  for  peace 
with  the  colonies. 

2  Statement. 


26  EDMUND  BURKE   ON  CONCILIATION 

contexture  of  the  whole,  and  if  not  entirely  destroy,  would  very 
much  depreciate  the  value  of  all  the  parts.  I  therefore  consider 
these  three  denominations  to  be,  what  in  effect  they  are,  one  trade. 
The  trade  to  the  colonies,  taken  on  the  export  side,  at  the 
beginning  of  this  century,  that  is,  in  the  year  1704,  stood  thus: 

Exports  to  North  America  and  the  West  Indies . .      £^^3 .  265 
To  Africa 86,665 

;£569,930 

In  the  year  1772,  which  I  take  as  a  middle  year  between  the 
highest  and  lowest  of  those  lately  laid  on  your  table,  the  account 
was  as  follows : 

To  North  America  and  the  West  Indies ^4,791,734 

To  Africa 866,398 

To  which  if  you  add  the  export  trade  from  Scot- 
land, which  had  in  1704  no  existence   364,000 

;£6,022,I32 


From  five  hundred  and  odd  thousand,  it  has  grown  to  six 
millions.  It  has  increased  no  less  than  twelve-fold.  This  is  the 
state  of  the  colony  trade,  as  compared  with  itself  at  these  two 
periods  within  this  century;  and  this  is  a  matter  for  meditation. 
But  this  is  not  all.  Examine  my  second  account.  See  how  the 
export  trade  to  the  colonies  alone  in  1772  stood  in  the  other  point 
of  view,  that  is,  as  compared  to  the  whole  trade  of  England 
in  1704. 

The  whole  export  trade  of  England,  including 

that  to  the  colonies,  in  1704 ;!^6, 509,000 

Export  to  the  colonies  alone,  in  1772 6,024,000 


Difference  £   485,000 

The  trade  with  America  alone  is  now  within  less  than  ;^5oo,ooo 
of  being  equal  to  what  this  great  commercial  nation,  England, 
carried  on  at  the  beginning  of  this  century  with  the  whole  world ! 
If  I  had  taken  the  largest  year  of  those  on  your  table,  it  would 


WITH  THE  AMERICAN  COLONIES,  27 

rather  have  exceeded.  But,  it  will  be  said,  is  not  this  American 
trade  an  unnatural  protuberance,  that  has  drawn  the  juices  from 
the  rest  of  the  body  ?  The  reverse.  It  is  the  very  food  that  has 
nourished  every  other  part  into  its  present  magnitude.  Our 
general  trade  has  been  greatly  augmented,  and  augmented  more 
or  less  in  almost  every  part  to  which  it  ever  extended ;  but  with 
this  material  difference,  that  of  the  six  millions  which  in  the 
beginning  of  the  century  constituted  the  whole  mass  of  our 
export  commerce,  the  colony  trade  was  but  one-twelfth  part;  it 
is  now  (as  a  part  of  sixteen  millions)  considerably  more  than  a 
third  of  the  whole.  This  is  the  relative  proportion  of  the  impor- 
tance of  the  colonies  at  these  two  periods;  and  all  reasoning 
concerning  our  mode  of  treating  them  must  have  this  proportion 
as  its  basis,  or  it  is  a  reasoning  weak,  rotten,  and  sophistical. 

Mr.  Speaker,  I  cannot  pre\'ail  on  myself  to  hurry  over  this  great 
consideration.  It  is  good  for  us  to  be  here.  We  stand  where  we 
have  an  immense  view  of  what  is,  and  what  is  past.  Clouds, 
indeed,  and  darkness  rest  upon  the  future.  Let  us,  however, 
before  we  descend  from  this  noble  eminence,  reflect  that  this 
growth  of  our  national  prosperity  has  happened  within  the  short 
period  of  the  life  of  man.  It  has  happened  within  sixty-eight 
years.  There  are  those  alive  whose  memory  might  touch  the  two 
extremities.  For  instance,  my  Lord  Bathurst  might  remember  all 
the  stages  of  the  progress.  He  was  in  1704  of  an  age  at  least  to 
be  made  to  comprehend  such  things.  He  was  then  old  enough 
acta  parentum  jam  lege  re,  et  guce  sit  poterit  cog}  los  cere  virtusy 
Suppose,  Sir,  that  the  angel  of  this  auspicious  youth,  foreseeing 
the  many  virtues  which  made  him  one  of  the  most  amiable,  as  he 
is  one  of  the  most  fortunate,  men  of  his  age,  had  opened  to  him 
in  vision,  that  when,  in  the  fourth  generation,  the  third  prince  2  of 
the  House  of  Brunswick  had  sat  twelve  years  on  the  throne  of  that 
nation,  which  (by  the  happy  issue  of  moderate  and  healing  coun- 

1  "  To  read  the  achievements  of  his  fathers,  and  be  able  to  understand  what 
virtue  is."      See  Vergil,  Eclogue  iv. 

2  The  reference  here  is  to  George  III.,  who  was  King  of  England  at  the 
time  of  the  delivery  of  this  speech. 


28  EDMUND  BURKE   ON  CONCILIATION 

cils)  was  to  be  made  Great  Britain,^  he  should  see  his  son,  Lord 
Chancellor  of  England,  turn  back  the  current  of  hereditary- 
dignity  to  its  fountain,  and  raise  him  to  a  higher  rank  of  peerage, 
whilst  he  enriched  the  family  with  a  new  one.  If  amidst  these 
bright  and  happy  scenes  of  domestic  honor  and  prosperity,  that 
angel  should  have  drawn  up  the  curtain,  and  unfolded  the  rising 
glories  of  his  country,  and  whilst  he  was  gazing  with  admiration 
on  the  then  commercial  grandeur  of  England,  the  genius  should 
point  out  to  him  a  little  speck,  scarce  visible  in  the  mass  of  the 
national  interest,  a  small  seminal  principle,^  rather  than  a  formed 
body,  and  should  tell  him:  "Young  man,  there  is  America, 
which  at  this  day  serves  for  Httle  more  than  to  amuse  you  with 
stories  of  savage  men  and  uncouth  manners,  yet  shall,  before  you 
taste  of  death,  show  itself  equal  to  the  whole  of  that  commerce 
which  now  attracts  the  envy  of  the  world.  Whatever  England 
has  been  growing  to  by  a  progressive  increase  of  improvement, 
brought  in  by  varieties  of  people,  by  succession  of  civilizing  con- 
quests and  civilizing  settlements  in  a  series  of  seventeen  hundred 
years,  you  shall  see  as  much  added  to  her  by  America  in  the 
course  of  a  single  life!" — if  this  state  of  his  country  had  been 
foretold  to  him,  would  it  not  require  all  the  sanguine  creduKty  of 
youth,  and  all  the  fervid  glow  of  enthusiasm,  to  make  him  believe 
it  ?  Fortunate  man,  he  has  lived  to  see  it !  Fortunate  indeed,  if 
he  lives  to  see  nothing  that  shall  vary  the  prospect,  and  cloud  the 
setting  of  his  day  ! 

Excuse  me,  Sir,  if,  turning  from  such  thoughts,  I  resume  this 
comparative  view  once  more.  You  have  seen  it  on  a  large  scale ; 
look  at  it  on  a  small  one.  I  will  point  out  to  your  attention  a 
particular  instance  of  it  in  the  single  province  of  Pennsylvania. 
In  the  year  1704,  that  province  called  for  ^11,459  in  value  of 
your  commodities,  native  and  foreign.  This  was  the  whole. 
What  did  it  demand  in  1772  ?  Why,  nearly  fifty  times  as  much ; 
for  in  that  year  the  export  to  Pennsylvania  was  ;^507,909,  nearly 

1  The  name  of  Great  Britain  was  not  formally  used  to  indicate  the  kingdom 
until  after  the  union  of  the  Scottish  and  English  Parliaments  in  1707. 

2  "  Seminal  principle,"  i.e.,  germ. 


WITH  THE  AMERICAN  COLONIES.  29 

equal  to  the  export  to  all  the  colonies  together  in  the  first 
period. 

I  choose,  Sir,  to  enter  into  these  minute  and  particular  details ; 
because  generalities,  which  in  all  other  cases  are  apt  to  heighten 
and  raise  the  subject,  have  here  a  tendency  to  sink  it.  When  we 
speak  of  the  commerce  with  our  colonies,  fiction  lags  after  truth, 
invention  is  unfruitful,  and  imagination  cold  and  barren. 

So  far,  Sir,  as  to  the  importance  of  the  object  in  view  of  its 
commerce,  as  concerned  in  the  exports  from  England.  If  I  were 
to  detail  the  imports,  I  could  show  how  many  enjoyments  they 
procure  which  deceive  the  burthen  1  of  life ;  how  many  materials 
which  invigorate  the  springs  of  national  industry,  and  extend  and 
animate  every  part  of  our  foreign  and  domestic  commerce.  This 
would  be  a  curious  subject  indeed  —  but  I  must  prescribe  bounds 
to  myself  in  a  matter  so  vast  and  various. 

I  pass,  therefore,  to  the  colonies  in  another  point  of  view^ — th^ir 
agriculture.  This  they  have  prosecuted  with  such  a  spirit,  that, 
besides  feeding  plentifully  their  own  growing  multitude,  their  an- 
nual export  of  grain,  comprehending  rice,  has  some  years  ago  ex- 
ceeded a  million  in  value.  Of  their  last  harvest,  I  am  persuaded 
they  will  export  much  more.  At  the  beginning  of  the  century 
some  of  these  colonies  imported  corn  from  their  mother  country. 

For  some  time  past,  the  Old  World  has  been  fed  from  the  New. 
The  scarcity  which  you  have  felt  would  have  been  a  desolating 
famine,  if  this  child  of  your  old  age,  with  a  true  filial  piety,  with 
a  Roman  charity,  had  not  put  the  full  breast  of  its  youthful 
exuberance  to  the  mouth  of  its  exhausted  parent.  2 

As  to  the  wealth  which  the  colonies  have  drawn  from  the  sea 
by  their  fisheries,  you  had  all  that  matter  fully  opened  at  your 
bar.  You  surely  thought  these  acquisitions  of  value,  for  they 
seemed  even  to  excite  your  envy;  and  yet  the  spirit  by  which 
that  enterprising  employment  has  been  exercised,  ought  rather,  in 

1  Old  form  of  "  burden. " 

2  An  allusion  to  the  story  of  a  Roman  girl  who,  when  her  father  was  im- 
prisoned and  left  to  starve,  obtained  entrance  to  his  cell,  and  nourished  him 
from  her  own  breast. 


30  EDMUND  BURKE   ON  CONCILIATION 

my  opinion,  to  have  raised  your  esteem  and  admiration.  And 
pray,  Sir,  what  in  the  world  is  equal  to  it?  Pass  by  the  other 
parts,  and  look  at  the  manner  in  which  the  people  of  New  Eng- 
land have  of  late  carried  on  the  whale  fishery.  Whilst  we  fol- 
low them  among  the  tumbhng  mountains  of  ice,  and  behold  them 
penetrating  into  the  deepest  frozen  recesses  of  Hudson  Bay  and 
Davis  Straits,  whilst  we  are  looking  for  them  beneath  the  arctic 
circle,  we  hear  that  they  have  pierced  into  the  opposite  region  of 
polar  cold,  that  they  are  at  the  antipodes,  and  engaged  under  the 
frozen  serpent  ^  of  the  south.  Falkland  Island,^  which  seemed  too 
remote  and  romantic  an  object  for  the  grasp  of  national  ambition, 
is  but  a  stage  and  resting  place  in  the  progress  of  their  victorious 
industry.  Nor  is  the  equinoctial  heat  more  discouraging  to  them 
than  the  accumulated  winter  of  both  the  poles.  We  know  that 
whilst  some  of  them  draw  the  Hne  and  strike  the  harpoon  on  the 
coast  of  Africa,  others  run  the  longitude,  and  pursue  their  gigantic 
game  along  the  coast  of  Brazil.  No  sea  but  what  is  vexed  by 
their  fisheries!  No  climate  that  is  not  witness  to  their  toils! 
Neither  the  perseverance  of  Holland,  nor  the  activity  of  France, 
nor  the  dexterous  and  firm  sagacity  of  English  enterprise,  ever 
carried  this  most  perilous  mode  of  hard  industry  to  the  extent  to 
which  it  has  been  pushed  by  this  recent  people — a  people  who 
are  still,  as  it  were,  but  in  the  gristle,  and  not  yet  hardened  into 
the  bone  of  manhood.  When  I  contemplate  these  things ;  when 
I  know  that  the  colonies  in  general  owe  little  or  nothing  to  any 
care  of  ours,  and  that  they  are  not  squeezed  into  this  happy  form 
by  the  constraints  of  watchful  and  suspicious  government — but 
that,  through  a  wise  and  salutary  neglect,  a  generous  nature  has 
been  suffered  to  take  her  own  way  to  perfection :  when  I  reflect 
upon  these  effects,  when  I  see  how  profitable  they  have  been  to 
us,  I  feel  all  the  pride  of  power  sink,  and  all  presumption  in  the 
wisdom  of  human  contrivances  melt  and  die  away  within  me. 
My  rigor  relents.     I  pardon  something  to  the  spirit  of  liberty. 

1  A  constellation  seen  within  the  antarctic  circle. 

2  The  largest  of  a  group  of  islands  off  the  southeast  coast  of  South  America, 
belonging  to  Great  Britain. 


WITH  THE  AMERICAN  COLONIES.  31 

I  am  sensible,  Sir,  that  all  which  I  have  asserted  in  my  detail, 
is  admitted  in  the  gross ;  but  that  quite  a  different  conclusion  is 
drawn  from  it.  America,  gentlemen  say,  is  a  noble  object.  It  is 
an  object  well  worth  fighting  for.  Certainly  it  is,  if  fighting  a 
people  be  the  best  way  of  gaining  them.  Gentlemen  in  this  re- 
spect will  be  led  to  their  choice  of  means  by  their  complexions 
and  their  habits.  Those  who  understand  the  military  art  will,  of 
course,  have  some  predilection  for  it.  Those  who  wield  the 
thunder  of  the  state,  may  have  more  confidence  in  the  efficacy  of 
arms.  But  I  confess,  possibly  for  want  of  this  knowledge,  my 
opinion  is  much  more  in  favor  of  prudent  management,  than 
of  force;  considering  force  not  as  an  odious,  but  a  feeble,  instru- 
ment, for  preserving  a  people  so  numerous,  so  active,  so  growing, 
so  spirited  as  this,  in  a  profitable  and  subordinate  connection 
with  us. 

First,  Sir,  permit  me  to  observe,  that  the  use  of  force  alone  is 
but  temporary.  It  may  subdue  for  a  moment;  but  it  does  not 
remove  the  necessity  of  subduing  again:  and  a  nation  is  not 
governed,  which  is  perpetually  to  be  conquered. 

''My  next  objection  is  its  uncertainty.  Terror  is  not  always  the 
effect  of  force ;  and  an  armament  is  not  a  victory.  If  you  do  not 
succeed,  you  are  without  resource ;  for,  conciliation  failing,  force 
remains;  but,  force  faihng,  no  further  hope  of  reconciliation  is 
left.  Power  and  authority  are  sometimes  bought  by  kindness; 
but  they  can  never  be  begged  as  alms  by  an  impoverished  and 
defeated  violence. 

A  further  objection  to  force  is,  that  you  impair  the  object  by 
your  very  endeavors  to  preserve  it.  The  thing  you  fought  for  is 
not  the  thing  which  you  recover — but  depreciated,  sunk,  wasted, 
and  consumed  in  the  contest.  Nothing  less  will  content  me, 
than  whole  America,  I  do  not  choose  to  consume  its  strength 
along  with  our  own ;  because  in  all  parts  it  is  the  British  strength 
that  I  consume.  I  do  not  choose  to  be  caught  by  a  foreign 
enemy  at  the  end  of  this  exhausting  conflict ;  and  still  less  in  the 
midst  of  it.  I  may  escape ;  but  I  can  make  no  insurance  against 
such  an  event.     Let  me  add,  that  I  do  not  choose  wholly  to 


32  EDMUND  BURKE   ON  CONCILIATION 

break  the  American  spirit ;  because  it  is  the  spirit  that  has  made 
the  country. 

Lastly,  we  have  no  sort  of  experience  in  favor  of  force  as  an  in- 
strument in  the  rule  of  our  colonies.  Their  growth  and  their 
utility  has  been  owing  to  methods  altogether  different.  Our 
ancient  indulgence  has  been  said  to  be  pursued  to  a  fault.  It 
may  be  so.  But  we  know,  if  feeling  is  evidence,  that  our  fault 
is  more  tolerable  than  our  attempt  to  mend  it;  and  our  sin  far 
more  salutary  than  our  penitence. 

These,  Sir,  are  my  reasons  for  not  entertaining  that  high  opin- 
ion of  untried  force,  by  which  many  gentlemen,  for  whose  senti- 
ments in  other  particulars  I  have  great  respect,  seem  to  be  so 
greatly  captivated.  But  there  is  still  behind  a  third  consideration 
concerning  this  object,  which  serves  to  determine  my  opinion  on 
the  sort  of  policy  which  ought  to  be  pursued  in  the  management 
of  America,  even  more  than  its  population  and  its  commerce. 
I  mean  its  temper  and  character. 

In  this  character  of  the  Americans,  a  love  of  freedom  is  the 
predominating  feature  which  marks  and  distinguishes  the  whole ;" 
and  as  an  ardent  is  always  a  jealous  affection,  your  colonies  be- 
come suspicious,  restive,  and  untractable,  whenever  they  see  the 
least  attempt  to  wrest  from  them  by  force,  or  shuffle  from  them 
by  chicane,  what  they  think  the  only  advantage  worth  living  for. 
This  fierce  spirit  of  liberty  is  stronger  in  the  English  colonies, 
probably,  than  in  any  other  people  of  the  earth ;  and  this  from  a 
great  variety  of  powerful  causes,  which,  to  understand  the  true 
temper  of  their  minds,  and  the  direction  which  this  spirit  takes,  it 
will  not  be  amiss  to  lay  open  somewhat  more  largely. 

First,  the  people  of  the  colonies  are  descendants  of  English- 
men. England,  Sir,  is  a  nation  which  still,  I  hope,  respects,  and 
formerly  adored,  her  freedom.  The  colonists  emigrated  from  you 
when  this  part  of  your  character  was  most  predominant;  and 
they  took  this  bias  and  direction  the  moment  they  parted  from 
your  hands.  They  are  therefore  not  only  devoted  to  liberty,  but 
to  liberty  according  to  English  ideas,  and  on  English  principles. 
Abstract  liberty,  like  other  mere  abstractions,  is  not  to  be  found. 


WITH  THE  AMERICAN  COLONIES.  T^Z 

Liberty  inheres  in  some  sensible  object;  and  every  nation  has 
formed  to  itself  some  favorite  point  which,  by  way  of  eminence, 
becomes  the  criterion  of  their  happiness.  It  happened,  you 
know,  Sir,  that  the  great  contests  for  freedom  in  this  country 
were  from  the  earliest  times  chiefly  upon  the  question  of  taxing. 
Most  of  the  contests  in  the  ancient  commonwealths  turned  pri- 
marily on  the  right  of  election  of  magistrates,  or  on  the  balance 
among  the  several  orders  of  the  state.  The  question  of  money 
was  not  with  them  so  immediate.  But  in  England  it  was  other- 
wise. On  this  point  of  taxes  the  ablest  pens  and  most  eloquent 
tongues  have  been  exercised,  the  greatest  spirits  have  acted  and 
suffered.  In  order  to  give  the  fullest  satisfaction  concerning  the 
importance  of  this  point,  it  was  not  only  necessary  for  those,  who 
in  argument  defended  the  excellence  of  the  English  constitution, 
to  insist  on  this  privilege  of  granting  money  as  a  dry  point  of 
fact,  and  to  prove  that  the  right  had  been  acknowledged  in 
ancient  parchments  and  blind  usages  to  reside  in  a  certain  body 
called  a  House  of  Commons.  ^iThey  went  much  farther;  they 
attempted  to  prove,  and  they  succeeded,  that  in  theory  it  ought 
to  be  so,  from  the  particular  nature  of  a  House  of  Commons  as 
an  immediate  representative  of  the  people,  whether  the  old  rec- 
ords had  delivered  this  oracle  or  not.  They  took  infinite  pains 
to  inculcate,  as  a  fundamental  principle,  that  in  all  monarchies 
the  people  must  in  effect  themselves,  mediately  or  immediately,^ 
possess  the  power  of  granting  their  own  money,  or  no  shadow 
of  liberty  could  subsist.  The  colonies  draw  from  you,  as  with 
their  lifeblood,  these  ideas  and  principles — their  love  of  liberty, 
as  with  you,  fixed  and  attached  on  this  specific  point  of  taxing. 
Liberty  might  be  safe,  or  might  be  endangered,  in  twenty  other 
particulars,  without  their  being  much  pleased  or  alarmed.  Here 
they  felt  its  pulse;  and  as  they  found  that  beat,  they  thought 
themselves  sick  or  sound.  I  do  not  say  whether  they  were  right 
or  wrong  in  applying  your  general  arguments  to  their  own  case. 
It  is  not  easy,  indeed,  to  make  a  monopoly  of  theorems  and 
corollaries.     The  fact  is  that  they  did   thus  apply  those  gen- 

1"  Mediately  or  immediately,"  i.e.,  indirectly  or  directly. 


34  EDMUND  BURKE   ON  CONCILIATION 

eral  arguments;  and  your  mode  of  governing  them,  whether 
through  lenity  or  indolence,  through  wisdom  or  mistake,  con- 
firmed them  in  the  imagination  that  they,  as  well  as  you,  had  an 
interest  in  these  common  principles. 

They  were  further  confirmed  in  this  pleasing  error  by  the 
form  of  their  provincial  legislative  assemblies.  Their  govern- 
ments are  popular  in  a  high  degree.  Some  are  merely  popular;  in 
all,  the  popular  representative  is  the  most  weighty ;  and  this  share 
of  the  people  in  their  'ordinary  government  never  fails  to  inspire 
them  with  lofty  sentiments,  and  with  a  strong  aversion  from 
whatever  tends  to  deprive  them  of  their  chief  importance. 

If  anything  were  wanting  to  this  necessary  operation  of  the 
form  of  government,  religion  would  have  given  it  a  complete 
effect.  Religion,  always  a  principle  of  energy,  in  this  new  people 
is  no  way  worn  out  or  impaired ;  and  their  mode  of  professing  it 
is  also  one  main  cause  of  this  free  spirit.  The  people  are  Protes- 
tants, and  of  that  kind  which  is  the  most  adverse  to  all  implicit 
submission  of  mind  and  opinion.  This  is  a  persuasion  not  only 
favorable  to  liberty,  but  built  upon  it.  I  do  not  think.  Sir,  that 
the  reason  of  this  averseness  in  the  dissenting  churches,  from  all 
that  looks  like  absolute  government,  is  so  much  to  be  sought  in 
their  religious  tenets  as  in  their  history.  Every  one  knows  that 
the  Roman  Catholic  religion  is  at  least  coeval  with  most  of  the 
governments  where  it  prevails ;  that  it  has  generally  gone  hand 
in  hand  with  them,  and  received  great  favor  and  every  kind 
of  support  from  authority.  The  Church  of  England,  too,  was 
formed  from  her  cradle  under  the  nursing  care  of  regular  govern- 
ment. But  the  dissenting  interests  have  sprung  up  in  direct  op- 
position to  all  the  ordinary  powers  of  the  world,  and  could  justify 
that  opposition  only  on  a  strong  claim  to  natural  liberty.  Their 
very  existence  depended  on  the  powerful  and  unremitted  asser- 
tion of  that  claim.  All  Protestantism,  even  the  most  cold  and 
passive,  is  a  sort  of  dissent.  But  the  religion  most  prevalent  in 
our  northern  colonies  is  a  refinement  on  the  principle  of  resist- 
ance; it  is  the  dissidence  of  dissent,^  and  the  Protestantism  of 

1  "  Dissidence  of  dissent,"  i.e.,  the  very  essence  of  dissent. 


WITH    THE  AMERICAN  COLONIES,  35 

the  Protestant  religion.  This  rehgion,  under  a  variety  of  denom- 
inations agreeing  in  nothing  but  in  the  communion  of  the  spirit 
of  liberty,  is  predominant  in  most  of  the  northern  provinces,  where 
the  Church  of  England,  notwithstanding  its  legal  rights,  is  in 
reality  no  more  than  a  sort  of  private  sect,  not  composing,  most 
probably,  the  tenth  of  the  people.  The  colonists  left  England 
when  this  spirit  was  high,  and  in  the  emigrants  was  the  highest 
of  all ;  and  even  that  stream  of  foreigners  which  has  been  con- 
stantly flowing  into  these  colonies  has,  for  the  greatest  part,  been 
composed  of  dissenters  from  the  establishments  of  their  several 
countries,  and  they  have  brought  with  them  a  temper  and  char- 
acter far  from  alien  to  that  of  the  people  with  whom  they  mixed. 
Sir,  I  can  ])erceive  by  their  manner  that  some  gentlemen  object 
to  the  latitude  of  this  description,  because  in  the  southern  colo- 
nies the  Church  of  England  forms  a  large  body,  and  has  a  reg- 
ular establishment.  It  is  certainly  true.  There  is,  however,  a 
circumstance  attending  these  colonies  which,  in  my  opinion,  fully 
counterbalances  this  difference,  and  makes  the  spirit  of  liberty 
still  more  high  and  haughty  than  in  those  to  the  northward.  It 
is  that  in  Virginia  and  in  the  Carohnas  they  have  a  vast  multi- 
tude of  slaves.  Where  this  is  the  case  in  any  part  of  the  world, 
those  who  are  free  are  by  far  the  most  proud  and  jealous  of  their' 
freedom.  Freedom  is  to  them  not  only  an  enjoyment,  but  a  kind 
of  rank  and  privilege.  Not  seeing  there  that  freedom,  as  in  coun- 
tries where  it  is  a  common  blessing  and  as  broad  and  general  as 
the  air,  may  be  united  with  much  abject  toil,  with  great  misery, 
with  all  the  exterior  of  servitude,  liberty  looks  amongst  them  like 
something  that  is  more  noble  and  liberal.  I  do  not  mean.  Sir,  to 
commend  the  superior  morality  of  this  sentiment,  which  has  at 
least  as  much  pride  as  virtue  in  it ;  but  I  cannot  alter  the  nature 
of  man.  The  fact  is  so ;  and  these  people  of  the  southern  colo- 
nies are  much  miore  strongly,  and  with  a  higher  and  more  stubborn 
spirit,  attached  to  liberty  than  those  to  the  northward.  Such 
were  all  the  ancient  commonwealths  \  such  were  our  Gothic  ^  an- 

1  The  ancestors  of  the  English  were  the  Angles  and  not  the  Goths ;  both 
were  Teutonic  tribes. 


36  EDMUND  BURKE   ON  CONCILIATION 

cestors ;  such  in  our  days  were  the  Poles ;  i  and  such  will  be  all 
masters  of  slaves  who  are  not  slaves  themselves.  In  such  a  peo- 
ple the  haughtiness  of  domination  combines  with  the  spirit  of 
freedom,  fortifies  it,  and  renders  it  invincible. 

Permit  me,  Sir,  to  add  another  circumstance  in  our  colonies, 
which  contributes  no  mean  part  toward  the  growth  and  effect  of 
this  untractable  spirit.  I  mean  their  education.  In  no  country 
perhaps  in  the  world  is  the  law  so  general  a  study.  The  profes- 
sion itself  is  numerous  and  powerful;  and  in  most  provinces  it 
takes  the  lead.  The  greater  number  of  the  deputies  sent  to  the 
Congress  ^  were  lawyers.  But  all  who  read — and  most  do  read  — 
endeavor  to  obtain  some  smattering  in  that  science.  I  have  been 
told  by  an  eminent  bookseller,  that  in  no  branch  of  his  business, 
after  tracts  of  popular  devotion,  were  so  many  books  as  those  on 
the  law  exported  to  the  plantations.  The  colonists  have  now 
fallen  into  the  way  of  printing  them  for  their  own  use.  I  hear 
that  they  have  sold  nearly  as  many  of  Blackstone's  "  Commenta- 
ries "  3  in  America  as  in  England.  General  Gage  ^  marks  out  this 
disposition  very  particularly  in  a  letter  on  your  table.  He  states 
that  all  the  people  in  his  government  are  lawyers,  or  smatterers 
in  law ;  and  that  in  Boston  they  have  been  enabled,  by  successful 
chicane,  wholly  to  evade  many  parts  of  one  of  your  capital  penal 
constitutions. 

The  smartness  of  debate  will  say  that  this  knowledge  ought  to 
teach  them  more  clearly  the  rights  of  legislature,  their  obligation 
to  obedience,  and  the  penalties  of  rebellion.  All  this  is  mighty 
well.     But  my  honorable  and  learned  friend^  on  the  floor,  who 

1  There  were  but  two  classes  in  Poland,  nobles  and  serfs.  The  nobles  had 
been  struggling  for  freer  institutions,  but  the  partition  of  Poland  between 
Austria,  Germany,  and  Russia  in  1772  had  defeated  their  hopes. 

2  The  First  Colonial  Congress,  which  met  in  Philadelphia  in  September, 
1774. 

3  Sir  William  Blackstone  (i 723-1 780)  wrote  Commentaries  on  the  Laws 
of  England,  a  work  extensively  used  by  students  of  law.  Its  popularity  is 
due  largely  to  the  clearness  and  perfection  of  its  style. 

4  Then  commander  of  the  British  troops  in  Boston. 

5  The  attorney-general,  Thurlow. 


WITH  THE  AMERICAN  COLONIES,  ^7 

condescends  to  mark  what  I  say  for  animadversion,  will  disdain 
that  ground.  He  has  heard,  as  well  as  I,  that  when  great  honors 
and  emoluments  do  not  win  over  this  knowledge  to  the  service 
of  the  state,  it  is  a  formidable  adversary  to  government.  If  the 
spirit  be  not  tamed  and  broken  by  these  happy  methods,  it  is  stub- 
born and  litigious.  Abeunt  studia  in  mores)-  This  study  renders 
men  acute,  inquisitive,  dexterous,  prompt  in  attack,  ready  in  de- 
fense, full  of  resources.  In  other  countries,  the  people,  more 
simple  and  of  a  less  mercurial  cast,  judge  of  an  ill  principle  in 
government  only  by  an  actual  grievance ;  here  they  anticipate  the 
evil,  and  judge  of  the  pressure  of  the  grievance  by  the  badness  of 
the  principle.  They  augur  misgovemment  at  a  distance,  and  snuff 
the  approach  of  tyranny  in  every  tainted  breeze. 

The  last  cause  of  this  disobedient  spirit  in  the  colonies  is 
hardly  less  powerful  than  the  rest,  as  it  is  not  merely  moral,  but 
laid  deep  in  the  natural  constitution  of  things.  Three  thousand 
miles  of  ocean  lie  between  you  and  them.  No  contrivance  can 
prevent  the  effect  of  this  distance  in  weakening  government. 
Seas  roll  and  months  pass  between  the  order  and  the  execution ; 
and  the  want  of  a  speedy  explanation  of  a  single  point  is  enough 
to  defeat  a  whole  system.  You  have,  indeed,  winged  ministers  of 
vengeance,'^  who  carry  your  bolts  in  their  pounces  ^  to  the  remotest 
verge  of  the  sea.  But  there  a  power  steps  in,  that  limits  the  ar- 
rogance of  raging  passions  and  furious  elements,  and  says,  "  So 
far  shalt  thou  go,  and  no  further."  ^  Who  are  you,  that  should 
fret  and  rage,  and  bite  the  chains  of  nature  ?  Nothing  worse 
happens  to  you  than  does  to  all  nations  who  have  extensive  em- 
pire ;  and  it  happens  in  all  the  forms  into  which  empire  can  be 
thrown.  In  large  bodies,  the  circulation  of  power  must  be  less 
vigorous  at  the  extremities.  Nature  has  said  it.  The  Turk  can- 
not govern  Egypt,  and  Arabia,  and  Kurdistan,^  as  he  governs 

1  "  Pursuits  become  habits."     See  Ovid,  Heroides,  xv.  ^Z 

2  Warships.  3  Talons. 

^  See  Job  xxxviii.  ii,   "  Hitherto  shah  thou  come,  but  no  further." 
6  A  country  in  western  Asia,  belonging  partly  to  Persia  and  partly  to 
Turkey. 


3^  EDMUND  BURKE   ON  CONCILIATION 

Thrace;  nor  has  he  the  same  dominion  in  Crimea  and  Algiers, 
which  he  has  at  Brusa  i  and  Smyrna.  Despotism  itself  is  obHged 
to  truck  and  huckster.^  The  Sultan  gets  such  obedience  as  he 
can.  He  governs  with  a  loose  rein,  that  he  may  govern  at  all ; 
and  the  whole  of  the  force  and  vigor  of  his  authority  in  his  center 
is  derived  from  a  prudent  relaxation  in  all  his  borders.  Spain, 
in  her  provinces,  is,  perhaps,  not  so  well  obeyed  as  you  are  in 
yours.  She  complies,  too ;  she  submits ;  she  watches  times.  This 
is  the  immutable  condition,  the  eternal  law,  of  extensive  and  de- 
tached empire. 

Then,  Sir,  from  these  six  capital  sources, —  of  descent,  of  form 
of  government,  of  religion  in  the  northern  provinces,  of  man- 
ners in  the  southern,  of  education,  of  the  remoteness  of  situa- 
tion from  the  first  mover  of  government, —  from  all  these  causes 
a  fierce  spirit  of  liberty  has  grown  up.  It  has  grown  with  the 
growth  of  the  people  in  your  colonies,  and  increased  with  the 
increase  of  their  wealth ;  a  spirit  that,  unhappily  meeting  with  an 
exercise  of  power  in  England,  which,  however  lawful,  is  not  rec- 
oncilable to  any  ideas  of  liberty,  much  less  with  theirs,  has  kin- 
dled this  flame  that  is  ready  to  consume  us. 

I  do  not  mean  to  commend  either  the  spirit  in  this  excess,  or 
the  moral  causes  which  produce  it.  Perhaps  a  more  smooth  and 
accommodating  spirit  of  freedom  in  them  would  be  more  accep- 
table to  us.  Perhaps  ideas  of  liberty  might  be  desired,  more 
reconcilable  with  an  arbitrary  and  boundless  authority.  Perhaps 
we  might  wish  the  colonists  to  be  persuaded,  that  their  liberty  is 
more  secure  when  held  in  trust  for  them  by  us  (as  their  guar- 
dians during  a  perpetual  minority),  than  with  any  part  of  it  in 
their  own  hands.  The  question  is,  not  whether  their  spirit  de- 
serves praise  or  blame,  but  —  what,  in  the  name  of  God,  shall 
we  do  with  it  ?  You  have  before  you  the  object,  such  as  it  is, 
with  all  its  glories,  with  all  its  imperfections  on  its  head.^  You 
see  the  magnitude;  the  importance;  the    temper;    the   habits; 

1  A  city  in  Asia  Minor,  between  Constantinople  and  Smyrna. 

2  "Truck  and  huckster,"  i.e.,  resort  to  petty  bargaining. 

3  See  Shakespeare,  Hamlet,  act  i.,  sc.  5. 


•  WITH   THE  AMERICAN  COLONIES.  39 

the  disorders.  By  all  these  considerations  we  are  strongly  urged 
to  determine  something  concerning  it.  We  are  called  upon  to 
fix  some  rule  and  line  for  our  future  conduct,  which  may  give  a 
little  stability  to  our  politics,  and  prevent  the  return  of  such  un- 
happy dehberations  as  the  present.  Every  such  return  will  bring 
the  matter  before  us  in  a  still  more  untractable  form.  For  what 
astonishing  and  incredible  things  have  we  not  seen  already  ! 
What  monsters  have  not  been  generated  from  this  unnatural  con- 
tention !  Whilst  every  principle  of  authority  and  resistance  has 
been  pushed,  upon  both  sides,  as  far  as  it  would  go,  there  is  no- 
thing so  solid  and  certain,  either  in  reasoning  or  in  practice,  that 
has  not  been  shaken. 

Until  very  lately,  all  authority  in  America  seemed  to  be  nothing 
but  an  emanation  from  yours.  Even  the  popular  part  of  the  col- 
ony constitution  derived  all  its  activity  and  its  first  vital  movement 
from  the  pleasure  of  the  Crown.  We  thought.  Sir,  that  the  ut- 
most which  the  discontented  colonists  could  do,  was  to  disturb 
authority ;  we  never  dreamt  they  could  of  themselves  supply  it, 
knowing  in  general  what  an  operose  business  it  is  to  establish  a 
government  absolutely  new.  But  having,  for  our  purposes  in  this 
contention,  resolved  that  none  but  an  obedient  assembly  should 
sit,  the  humors  of  the  people  there,  finding  all  passage  through 
the  legal  channel  stopped,  with  great  violence  broke  out  another 
way.  Some  provinces  have  tried  their  experiment,  as  we  have 
tried  ours ;  and  theirs  has  succeeded.  They  have  formed  a  gov- 
ernment sufficient  for  its  purposes,  without  the  bustle  of  a  revolu- 
tion or  the  troublesome  formality  of  an  election.  Evident  neces- 
sity and  tacit  consent  have  done  the  business  in  an  instant.  So 
well  they  have  done  it,  that  Lord  Dunmore  i  (the  account  is 
among  the  fragments  on  your  table)  tells  you  that  the  new  insti- 
tution is  infinitely  better  obeyed  than  the  ancient  government  ever 
was  in  its  most  fortunate  periods.  Obedience  is  what  makes  gov- 
ernment, and  not  the  names  by  which  it  is  called ;  not  the  name 
of  governor,  as  formerly,  or  committee,  as  at  present.  This  new 
government  has  originated  directly  from  the  people,  and  was  not 

1  Then  governor  of  Virginia. 


40  EDMUND  BURKE   ON  CONCILIATION 

transmitted  through  any  of  the  ordinary  artificial  media  of  a  posi- 
tive constitution.  It  was  not  a  manufacture  ready  formed,  and 
transmitted  to  them  in  that  condition  from  England.  The  evil 
arising  from  hence  is  this :  that  the  colonists,  having  once  found 
the  possibihty  of  enjoying  the  advantages  of  order  in  the  midst  of 
a  struggle  for  liberty,  such  struggles  will  not  henceforward  seem 
so  terrible  to  the  settled  and  sober  part  of  mankind  as  they  had 
appeared  before  the  trial. 

Pursuing  the  same  plan  of  punishing  by  the  denial  of  the  exer- 
cise of  government  to  still  greater  lengths,  we  wholly  abrogated 
the  ancient  government  of  Massachusetts.^  We  were  confident 
that  the  first  feeling,  if  not  the  very  prospect  of  anarchy,  would 
instantly  enforce  a  complete  submission.  The  experiment  was 
tried.  A  new,  strange,  unexpected  face  of  things  appeared. 
Anarchy  is  found  tolerable.  A  vast  province  has  now  subsisted — 
and  subsisted  in  a  considerable  degree  of  health  and  vigor — for 
near  a  twelvemonth,  without  governor,  without  public  council, 
without  judges,  without  executive  magistrates.  How  long  it  will 
continue  in  this  state,  or  what  may  arise  out  of  this  unheard-of 
situation,  how  can  the  wisest  of  us  conjecture  ?  Our  late  experi- 
ence has  taught  us,  that  many  of  those  fundamental  principles, 
formerly  beHeved  infallible,  are  either  not  of  the  importance  they 
were  imagined  to  be ;  or  that  we  have  not  at  all  adverted  to  some 
other  far  more  important  and  far  more  powerful  principles,  which 
entirely  overrule  those  we  had  considered  as  omnipotent.  I  am 
much  against  any  further  experiments  which  tend  to  put  to  the 
proof  any  more  of  these  allowed  opinions  which  contribute  so 
much  to  the  public  tranquiUity.  In  effect,  we  suffer  as  much  at 
home  by  this  loosening  of  all  ties,  and  this  concussion  of  all  estab- 
lished opinions,  as  we  do  abroad.  For,  in  order  to  prove  that  the 
Americans  have  no  right  to  their  liberties,  we  are  every  day  en- 
deavoring to  subvert  the  maxims  which  preserve  the  whole  spirit 

1  In  1774,  acts  were  passed  by  Parliament  transferring  to  the  king  the 
appointment  of  all  judges  and  administrative  officers  in  the  colony  of  Massa- 
chusetts, and  forbidding  the  holding  of  town  meetings  without  the  consent  of 
the  governor. 


WITH  THE  AMERICAN  COIONIES.  41 

of  our  own.  To  prove  that  the  Americans  ought  not  to  be  free, 
we  are  obliged  to  depreciate  the  value  of  freedom  itself;  and  we 
never  seem  to  gain  a  paltry  advantage  over  them  in  debate,  with- 
out attacking  some  of  those  principles^  or  deriding  some  of  those 
feelings,  for  which  our  ancestors  have  shed  their  blood. 

But,  Sir,  in  wishing  to  put  an  end  to  pernicious  experiments,  I 
do  noi  mean  to  preclude  the  fullest  inquiry.  Far  from  it !  Far 
from  deciding  on  a  sudden  or  partial  view,  I  would  patiently  go 
round  and  round  the  subject,  and  survey  it  minutely  in  every 
possible  aspect.  Sir,  if  I  were  capable  of  engaging  you  to  an 
equal  attention,  I  would  state  that,  as  far  as  I  am  capable  of  dis- 
cerning, there  are  but  three  ways  of  proceeding  relative  to  this 
stubborn  spirit  which  prevails  in  your  colonies  and  disturbs  your 
government.  These  are :  to  change  that  spirit,  as  inconvenient, 
by  removing  the  causes;  to  prosecute  it  as  criminal;  or  to 
comply  with  it  as  necessary.  I  would  not  be  guilty  of  an  imper- 
fect enumeration;  I  can  think  of  but  these  three.  Another  has 
indeed  been  started  —  that  of  giving  up  the  colonies;  but  it  met 
so  slight  a  reception  that  I  do  not  think  myself  obhged  to  dwell  a 
great  while  upon  it.  It  is  nothing  but  a  little  sally  of  anger,  like 
the  frowardness  of  peevish  children,  who,  when  they  cannot  get 
all  they  would  have,  are  resolved  to  take  nothing. 

The  first  of  these  plans, —  to  change  the  spirit  as  inconvenient 
by  removing  the  causes, —  I  think,  is  the  most  like  a  systematic 
proceeding.  It  is  radical  in  its  principle ;  but  it  is  attended  with 
great  difficulties,  some  of  them  little  short,  as  I  conceive,  of  impos- 
sibiHties.  This  will  appear  by  examining  into  the  plans  which 
have  been  proposed. 

As  the  growing  population  in  the  colonies  is  evidently  one 
cause  of  their  resistance,  it  was,  last  session,  mentioned  in  both 
Houses,  by  men  of  weight,  and  received  not  without  applause, 
that  in  order  to  check  this  evil  it  would  be  proper  for  the  Crown 
to  make  no  further  grants  of  land.  But  to  this  scheme  there  are 
two  objections.  The  first,  that  there  is  already  so  much  unsettled 
land  in  private  hands  as  to  afford  room  for  an  immense  future 
population,  although  the  Crown  not  only  withheld  its  grants  but 


42  EDMUND  BURKE   ON  CONCILIATION 

annihilated  its  soil.  If  this  be  the  case,  then  the  only  effect  of 
this  avarice  of  desolation,  this  hoarding  of  a  royal  wilderness, 
would  be  to  raise  the  value  of  the  possessions  in  the  hands  of  the 
great  private  monopolists,  without  any  adequate  check  to  the 
growing  and  alarming  mischief  of  population. 

But  if  you  stopped  your  grants,  what  would  be  the  conse- 
quence ?  The  people  would  occupy  without  grants.  Thq|^  have 
already  so  occupied  in  many  places.  You  cannot  station  garri- 
sons in  every  part  of  these  deserts.  If  you  drive  the  people  from 
one  place,  they  will  carry  on  their  annual  tillage,  and  remove  witli 
their  flocks  and  herds  to  another.  Many  of  the  people  in  the 
back  settlements  are  already  little  attached  to  particular  situations. 
Already  they  have  topped  the  Appalachian  mountains.  From 
thence  they  behold  before  them  an  immense  plain  —  one  vast, 
rich,  level  meadow,  a  square  of  five  hundred  miles.  Over  this 
they  would  wander  without  a  possibihty  of  restraint ;  they  would 
change  their  manners  with  the  habits  of  their  life;  would  soon 
forget  a  government  by  which  they  were  disowned ;  would  become 
hordes  of  English  Tartars,^  and,  pouring  down  upon  your  unfor- 
tified frontiers  a  fierce  and  irresistible  cavalry,  become  masters  of 
your  governors  and  your  counselors,  your  collectors  and  comp- 
trollers, and  of  all  the  slaves  that  adhered  to  them.  Such  would, 
and,  in  no  long  time,  must  be,  the  effect  of  attempting  to  forbid 
as  a  crime,  and  to  suppress  as  an  evil,  the  command  and  blessing 
of  Providence,  "  Increase  and  multiply."  ^  Such  would  be  the 
happy  result  of  an  endeavor  to  keep  as  a  lair  of  wild  beasts  that 
earth  which  God,  by  an  express  charter,  has  given  to  the  children 
of  men.  '^  Far  different,  and  surely  much  wiser,  has  been  our 
poHcy  hitherto.  Hitherto  we  have  invited  our  people,  by  every 
kind  of  bounty,  to  fixed  establishments.  We  have  invited  the 
husbandman  to  look  to  authority  for  his  title.  We  have  taught 
him  piously  to  believe  in  the  mysterious  virtue  of  wax  and  parch- 

1  The  Tartars  were  a  fierce  Mongol  tribe,  which  invaded  Russia  in  Europe 
in  the  thirteenth  century. 

2  See  Gen.  i.  22. 

3  See  Ps.  cxv.  16. 


WITH  THE  AMERICAN  COLONIES,  43 

ment.i  We  have  thrown  each  tract  of  land^  as  it  was  peopled, 
into  districts,  that  the  ruHng  power  should  never  be  wholly  out 
of  sight.  We  have  settled  all  we  could  \  and  we  have  carefully 
attended  every  settlement  with  government. 

Adhering,  Sir,  as  I  do,  to  this  policy,  as  well  as  for  the  reasons 
I  have  just  given,  I  think  this  new  project  of  hedging  in  popula- 
tion to  be  neither  prudent  nor  practicable. 

To  impoverish  the  colonies  in  general,  and  in  particular  to 
arrest  the  noble  course  of  their  marine  enterprises,  would  be  a 
more  easy  task.  I  freely  confess  it.  We  have  shown  a  disposi- 
tion to  a  system  of  this  kind;  a  disposition  even  to  continue  the 
restraint  after  the  offense,  looking  on  ourselves  as  rivals  to  our 
colonies,  and  persuaded  that  of  course  we  must  gain  all  that  they 
shall  lose.  Much  mischief  we  may  certainly  do.  The  power 
inadequate  to  all  other  things  is  often  more  than  sufficient  for  this. 
I  do  not  look  on  the  direct  and  immediate  power  of  the  colonies 
to  resist  our  violence  as  very  formidable.  In  this,  however,  I  may 
be  mistaken.  But  when  I  consider  that  we  have  colonies  for  no 
purpose  but  to  be  serviceable  to  us,  it  seems  to  my  poor  under- 
standing a  little  preposterous  to  make  them  unserviceable  in 
order  to  keep  them  obedient.  It  is,  in  truth,  nothing  more  than 
the  old  and  (as  I  thought)  exploded  problem  of  tyranny,  which 
proposes  to  beggar  its  subjects  into  submission.  But  remember, 
when  you  have  completed  your  system  of  impoverishment,  that 
nature  still  proceeds  in  her  ordinary  course ;  that  discontent  will 
increase  with  misery ;  and  that  there  are  critical  moments  in  the 
fortune  of  all  states,  when  they  who  are  too  weak  to  contribute  to 
your  prosperity  may  be  strong  enough  to  complete  your  ruin. 
Spoliaiis  a?'ma  super  sunt?' 

The  temper  and  character  which  prevail  in  our  colonies  are,  I 
am  afraid,  unalterable  by  any  human  art.  We  cannot,  I  fear, 
falsify  the  pedigree  of  this  fierce  people,  and  persuade  them  that 
they  are  not  sprung  from  a  nation  in  whose  veins  the  blood  of 
freedom  circulates.     The  language  in  which  they  would  hear  you 

1  "  Wax  and  parchment,"  i.  e.,  legal  procedure. 

2  "Though  plundered  they  yet  have  arms."     See  Juvenal,  Sat.  viii. 


44  EDMUND  BURKE   ON  CONCILIATION 

tell  them  this  tale  would  detect  the  imposition ;  your  speech  would 
betray  you.  An  Englishman  is  the  unfittest  person  on  earth  to 
argue  another  Englishman  into  slavery. 

I  think  it  is  nearly  as  little  in  our  power  to  change  their  repub- 
lican religion  as  their  free  descent,  or  to  substitute  the  Roman 
Cathohc  as  a  penalty,  or  the  Church  of  England  as  an  improve- 
ment. The  mode  of  inquisition  and  dragooning  i  is  going  out  of 
fashion  in  the  Old  World;  and  I  should  not  confide  much  to  their 
efficacy  in  the  New.  The  education  of  the  Americans  is  also  on 
the  same  unalterable  bottom  with  their  religion.  You  cannot 
persuade  them  to  burn  their  books  of  curious  science,  to  banish 
their  lawyers  from  their  courts  of  laws,  or  to  quench  the  lights 
of  their  assemblies  by  refusing  to  choose  those  persons  who  are 
best  read  in  their  privileges.  It  would  be  no  less  impracticable 
to  think  of  wholly  annihilating  the  popular  assemblies  in  which 
these  lawyers  sit.  The  army  by  which  we  must  govern  in  their 
place  would  be  far  more  chargeable  to  us ;  not  quite  so  effectual, 
and  perhaps  in  the  end  full  as  difficult  to  be  kept  in  obedience. 

With  regard  to  the  high  aristocratic  spirit  of  Virginia  and  the 
southern  colonies  it  has  been  proposed,  I  know,  to  reduce  it  by 
declaring  a  general  enfranchisement  of  their  slaves.  This  project 
has  had  its  advocates  and  panegyrists,  yet  I  never  could  argue 
myself  into  any  opinion  of  it.  Slaves  are  often  much  attached  to 
their  masters.  A  general  wild  offer  of  liberty  would  not  always 
be  accepted.  History  furnishes  few  instances  of  it.  It  is  some- 
times as  hard  to  persuade  slaves  to  be  free  as  it  is  to  compel  free- 
men to  be  slaves ;  and  in  this  auspicious  scheme  we  should  have 
both  these  pleasing  tasks  on  our  hands  at  once.  But  when  we 
talk  of  enfranchisement,  do  we  not  perceive  that  the  American 
master  riiay  enfranchise  too,  and  arm  servile  hands  in  defense  of 
freedom  ?  —  a  measure  to  which  other  people  have  had  recourse 
more  than  once,  and  not  without  success,  in  a  desperate  situation 
of  their  affairs. 

1  One  device  for  persecuting  the  Protestants  in  France  in  the  reign  of  Louis 
XIV.  was  to  quarter  upon  them  dragoons,  who  were  instructed  to  annoy  them 
in  every  conceivable  way. 


WITH  THE  AMERICAN  COLONIES.  45 

Slaves  as  these  unfortunate  black  people  are,  and  dull  as  all 
men  are  from  slavery,  must  they  not  a  little  suspect  the  offer  of 
freedom  from  that  very  nation,  which  has  sold  them  to  their  pres- 
ent masters;  from  that  nation,  one  of  whose  causes  of  quarrel 
with  those  masters  is  their  refusal  to  deal  any  more  in  that  inhu- 
man traffic  ?  An  offer  of  freedom  from  England  would  come 
rather  oddly,  shipped  to  them  in  an  African  vessel,  which  is  re- 
fused an  entry  into  the  ports  of  Virginia  or  Carolina,  with  a  cargo 
of  three  hundred  Angola  i  negroes.  It  would  be  curious  to  see 
the  Guinea  captain  attempting  at  the  same  instant  to  publish  his 
proclamation  of  liberty,  and  to  advertise  his  sale  of  slaves.  2 

But  let  us  suppose  all  these  moral  difficulties  got  over.  Th§ 
ocean  remains.  You  cannot  pump  this  dry ;  and  as  long  as  it 
continues  in  its  present  bed,  so  long  all  the  causes  which  weaken 
authority  by  distance  will  continue.  "Ye  gods,  annihilate  but 
space  and  time,  and  make  two  lovers  happy !  "^  was  a  pious  and 
passionate  prayer ;  but  just  as  reasonable  as  many  of  the  serious 
wishes  of  very  grave  and  solemn  politicians. 

If,  then.  Sir,  it  seems  almost  desperate  to  think  of  any  altera- 
tive course  for  changing  the  moral  causes  (and  not  quite  easy  to 
remove  the  natural)  which  produce  prejudices  irreconcilable  to 
the  late  exercise  of  our  authority,  —  but  that  the  spirit  infallibly  will 
continue,  and,  continuing,  will  produce  such  effects  as  now  em- 
barrass us, —  the  second  mode  undeV  consideration  is  to  prosecute 
that  spirit  in  its  overt  acts  as  criminaL 

At  this  proposition  I  must  pause  a  moment.  The  thing  seems 
a  great  deal  too  big  for  my  ideas  of  jurisprudence.  It  should 
seem  to  my  way  of  conceiving  such  matters,  that  there  is  a  very 
wide  difference  in  reason  and  policy  between  the  mode  of  pro- 
ceeding on  the  irregular  conduct  of  scattered  individuals,  or  even 

1  A  colony  belonging  to  Portugal,  on  the  west  coast  of  Africa,  formerly 
famous  for  its  extensive  slave  trade. 

2  Though  the  employment  of  slaves  in  England  had  been  forbidden  by  a 
law  enacted  in  1772,  the  English  nation  continued  to  carry  on  a  very  lucrative 
trade,  in  negroes  imported  from  Africa,  with  the  American  colonies. 

3  From  one  of  Dryden's  plays. 


46  EDMUND  BURKE   ON  CONCILIATION 

of  bands  of  men,  who  disturb  order  within  the  state,  and  the 
civil  dissensions  which  may  from  time  to  time,  on  great  questions, 
agitate  the  several  communities  which  compose  a  great  empire. 
It  looks  to  me  to  be  narrow  and  pedantic  to  apply  the  ordinary 
ideas  of  criminal  justice  to  this  great  public  contest.  I  do  not 
know  the  method  of  drawing  up  an  indictment  against  a  whole 
people.  I  cannot  insult  and  ridicule  the  feelings  of  millions  of 
my  fellow  creatures  as  Sir  Edward  Coke  i  insulted  one  excellent 
individual  (Sir  Walter  Raleigh)  at  the  bar.  I  hope  I  am  not  ripe 
to  pass  sentence  on  the  gravest  pubhc  bodies,  intrusted  with 
magistracies  of  great  authority  and  dignity,  and  charged  with 
J;he  safety  of  their  fellow  citizens  upon  the  very  same  title  that  I 
am.  I  really  think  that  for  wise  men  this  is  not  judicious;  for 
sober  men,  not  decent;  for  minds  tinctured  with  humanity,  not 
mild  and  merciful. 

Perhaps,  Sir,  I  am  mistaken  in  my  idea  of  an  empire,  as  dis- 
tinguished from  a  single  state  or  kingdom.  But  my  idea  of  it  is 
this :  that  an  empire  is  the  aggregate  of  many  states  under  one 
common  head,  whether  this  head  be  a  monarch  or  a  presiding 
republic.  It  does,  in  such  constitutions,  frequently  happen  (and 
nothing  but  the  dismal,  cold,  dead  uniformity  of  servitude  can 
prevent  its  happening)  that  the  subordinate  parts  have  many 
local  privileges  and  immunities.  Between  these  privileges  and 
the  supreme  common  authority  the  line  may  be  extremely  nice. 
Of  course  disputes — often,  too,  very  bitter  disputes  —  and  much  ill 
blood  will  arise.  But  though  every  privilege  is  an  exemption  (in 
the  case)  from  the  ordinary  exercise  of  the  supreme  authority,  it  is 
no  denial  of  it.  The  claim  of  a  privilege  seems  rather,  ex  vi 
termini^^  to  imply  a  superior  power.  For  to  talk  of  the  privileges 
of  a  state,  or  of  a  person,  who  has  no  superior,  is  hardly  any  bet- 
ter than  speaking  nonsense.  Now,  in  such  unfortunate  quarrels 
among  the  component  parts  of  a  great  political  union  of  com- 

1  A  noted  lawyer  (1552-1634),  the  greatest  of  his  day.  He  was  harsh  and 
violent  in  his  manner,  and,  in  the  trial  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  treated  the 
prisoner  with  marked  discourtesy. 

2  By  the  meaning,  or  force,  of  the  expression.         k 


WITH  THE  AMERICAN  COLONIES.  47 

munities,  I  can  scarcely  conceive  anything  more  completely  im- 
prudent than  for  the  head  of  the  empire  to  insist  that,  if  any  privi- 
lege is  pleaded  against  his  will  or  his  acts,  his  whole  authority 
is  denied ;  instantly  to  proclaim  rebellion,  to  beat  to  arms,  and  to 
put  the  offending  provinces  under  the  ban.  Will  not  this.  Sir, 
very  soon  teach  the  provinces  to  make  no  distinctions  on  their 
part  ?  Will  it  not  teach  them  that  the  government,  against  which 
a  claim  of  liberty  is  tantamount  to  high  treason,  is  a  government 
to  which  submission  is  equivalent  to  slavery  ?  It  may  not  always 
be  quite  convenient  to  impress  dependent  communities  with  such 
an  idea. 

We  are,  indeed,  in  all  disputes  with  the  colonies,  by  the  neces- 
sity of  things,  the  judge.  It  is  true,  Sir.  But  I  confess  that  the 
character  of  judge  in  my  own  cause  is  a  thing  that  frightens  me. 
Instead  of  filling  me  with  pride,  I  am  exceedingly  humbled  by  it. 
I  cannot  proceed  with  a  stern,  assured,  judicial  confidence,  until 
I  find  myself  in  something  more  like  a  judicial  character.  I 
must  have  these  hesitations  as  long  as  I  am  compelled  to  recol- 
lect that,  in  my  little  reading  upon  such  contests  as  these,  the 
sense  of  mankind  has,  at  least,  as  often  decided  against  the  su- 
perior as  the  subordinate  power.  Sir,  let  me  add,  too,  that  the 
opinion  of  my  having  some  abstract  right  in  my  favor  would  not 
put  me  much  at  my  ease  in  passing  sentence,  unless  I  could  be 
sure  that  there  were  no  rights  which,  in  their  exercise  under  cer- 
tain circumstances,  were  not  the  most  odious  of  all  wrongs,  and 
the  most  vexatious  of  all  injustice.  Sir,  these  considerations 
have  great  weight  with  me,  when  I  find  things  so  circumstanced 
that  I  see  the  same  party,  at  once  a  civil  litigant  against  me  in 
point  of  right,  and  a  culprit  before  me ;  while  I  sit  as  a  criminal 
judge  on  acts  of  his,  whose  moral  quafity  is  to  be  decided  upon 
the  merits  of  that  very  litigation.  Men  are  every  now  and  then 
put,  by  the  complexity  of  human  affairs,  into  strange  situations ; 
but  justice  is  the  same,  let  the  judge  be  in  what  situation  he  will. 

There  is,  Sir,  also  a  circumstance  which  convinces  me  that  this 
mode  of  criminal  proceeding  is  not  (at  least  in  the  present  stage 
of  our  contest)  altogether  expedient ;  which  is  nothing  less  than 


48  EDMUND  BURKE   ON  CONCILIATION 

the  conduct  of  those  very  persons  who  have  seemed  to  adopt 
that  mode,  by  lately  declaring  a  rebellion  in  Massachusetts  Bay, 
as  they  had  formerly  addressed  to  have  traitors  brought  hither, 
under  an  act  of  Henry  VIII.  i  for  trial.  For  though  rebelHon  is 
declared,  it  is  not  proceeded  against  as  such ;  nor  have  any  steps 
been  taken  toward  the  apprehension  or  conviction  of  any  indi- 
vidual offender,  either  on  our  late  or  our  former  address ;  but 
modes  of  public  coercion  have  been  adopted,  and  such  as  have 
much  more  resemblance  to  a  sort  of  qualified  hostility  toward  an 
independent  power  than  the  punishment  of  rebelHous  subjects. 
All  this  seems  rather  inconsistent;  but  it  shows  how  difficult  it  is 
to  apply  these  juridical  ideas  to  our  present  case. 

In  this  situation,  let  us  seriously  and  coolly  ponder.  What  is 
it  we  have  got  by  all  our  menaces,  which  have  been  many  and 
ferocious  ?  What  advantage  have  we  derived  from  the  penal 
laws  we  have  passed,  and  which,  for  the  time,  have  been  severe 
and  numerous  ?  What  advances  have  we  made  toward  our  ob- 
ject, by  the  sending  of  a  force,  which,  by  land  and  sea,  is  no  con- 
temptible strength  ?  Has  the  disorder  abated  ?  Nothing  less.  2 
When  I  see  things  in  this  situation,  after  such  confident  hopes, 
bold  promises,  and  active  exertions,  I  cannot,  for  my  life,  avoid  a 
suspicion  that  the  plan  itself  is  not  correctly  right. 

If,  then,  the  removal  of  the  causes  of  this  spirit  of  American 
liberty  be,  for  the  greater  part,  or  rather  entirely,  impracticable ; 
if  the  ideas  of  criminal  process  be  inapplicable,  or  if  appHcable, 
are  in  the  highest  degree  inexpedient,  what  way  yet  remains? 
No  way  is  open  but  the  third  and  last  —  to  comply  with  the 
American  spirit  as  necessary ;  or,  if  you  please,  to  submit  to  it  as 
a  necessary  evil. 

If  we  adopt  this  mode,  if  we  mean  to  conciliate  and  concede, 
let  us  see  of  what  nature  the  concession  ought  to  be.  To  ascertain 
the  nature  of  our  concession,  we  must  look  at  their  complaint. 
The  colonies  complain  that  they  have  not  the  characteristic 
mark  and  seal  of  British  freedom.     They  complain  that  they  are 

1  King  of  England  from  1509  to  1547. 

2  "  Nothing  less,"  i.e.,  nothing  has  abated  le^. 


1  WITH  THE  AMERICAN  COLONIES,  49 

taxed  in  a  Parliament  in  which  they  are  not  represented.  If  you 
mean  to  satisfy  them  at  all,  you  must  satisfy  them  with  regard  to 
this  complaint.  If  you  mean  to  please  any  people,  you  must 
give  them  the  boon  which  they  ask;  not  what  you  may  think 
better  for  them,  but  of  a  kind  totally  different.  Such  an  act  may 
be  a  wise  regulation,  but  it  is  no  concession  ;  whereas  our  present 
theme  is  the  mode  of  giving  satisfaction. 

Sir,  I  think  you  must  perceive  that  I  am  resolved  this  day  to 
have  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  the  question  of  the  right  of  taxa- 
tion. Some  gentlemen  startle  —  but  it  is  true ;  I  put  it  totally  out 
of  the  question.  It  is  less  than  nothing  in  my  consideration.  I 
do  not  indeed  wonder,  nor  will  you.  Sir,  that  gentlemen  of  pro- 
found learning  are  fond  of  displaying  it  on  this  profound  subject. 
But  my  consideration  is  narrow,  confined,  and  wholly  Hmited  to 
the  policy  of  the  question.  I  do  not  examine  whether  the  giving 
away  a  man's  money  be  a  power  excepted  and  reserved  out  of 
the  general  trust  of  government;  and  how  far  all  mankind,  in 
all  forms  of  polity,  are  entitled  to  an  exercise  of  that  right  by  the 
charter  of  nature.  Or  whether,  on  the  contrary,  a  right  of  taxa- 
tion is  necessarily  involved  in  the  general  principle  of  legislation, 
and  inseparable  from  the  ordinary  supreme  power.  These  are 
deep  questions,  where  great  names  militate  against  each  other, 
where  reason  is  perplexed,  and  an  appeal  to  authorities  only 
thickens  the  confusion.  For  high  and  reverend  authorities  lift  up 
their  heads  on  both  sides,  and  there  is  no  sure  footing  in  the  mid- 
dle.    This  point  is  the  great 

Serbonian  bog, 

*Twixt  Damiata  and  Mount  Cassius  old, 

Where  armies  whole  have  sunk.^ 

I  do  not  intend  to  be  overwhelmed  in  that  bog,  though  in  such 
respectable  company. 

1  See  Milton,  Paradise  Lost,  Book  ii.,  lines  592,  593.  Lake  Serbonis 
was  surrounded  by  high  hills  of  sand,  which  was  often  carried  into  the  water 
by  violent  winds,  and  floated  on  the  surface,  giving  the  lake  a  solid  appear- 
ance. Herodotus  and  Diodorus  Siculus  speak  of  armies  that  had  disappeared 
in  its  depths. 
4 


50  EDMUND  BURKE   ON  CONCILIATION 

The  question  with  me  is,  not  whether  you  have  a  right  to  render 
your  people  miserable,  but  whether  it  is  not  your  interest  to  make 
them  happy.  It  is  not  what  a  lawyer  tells  me  I  may  do;  but 
what  humanity,  reason,  and  justice  tell  me  I  ought  to  do.  Is  a 
politic  act  the  worse  for  being  a  generous  one  ?  Is  no  concession 
proper  but  that  which  is  made  from  your  want  of  right  to  keep 
what  you  grant  ?  Or  does  it  lessen  the  grace  or  dignity  of  relax- 
ing in  the  exercise  of  an  odious  claim,  because  you  have  your 
evidence  room  full  of  titles,  and  your  magazines  stuffed  with  arms 
to  enforce  them  ?  What  signify  all  those  titles,  and  all  those  arms  ? 
Of  what  avail  are  they,  when  the  reason  of  the  thing  tells  me  that 
the  assertion  of  my  title  is  the  loss  of  my  suit,  and  that  I  could  do 
nothing  but  wound  myself  by  the  use  of  my  own  weapons  ? 

Such  is  steadfastly  my  opinion  of  the  absolute  necessity  of 
keeping  up  the  concord  of  this  empire  by  a  unity  of  spirit, 
though  in  a  diversity  of  operations,  that,  if  I  were  sure  the  colo- 
nists had,  at  their  leaving  this  country,  sealed  a  regular  compact 
of  servitude;  that  they  had  solemnly  abjured  all  the  rights  of 
citizens;  that  they  had  made  a  vow  to  renounce  all  ideas  of 
liberty  for  them  and  their  posterity  to  all  generations;  yet  I 
should  hold  myself  obhged  to  conform  to  the  temper  I  found 
universally  prevalent  in  my  own  day,  and  to  govern  two  millions 
of  men,  impatient  of  servitude,  on  the  principles  of  freedom.  I 
am  not  determining  a  point  of  law ;  I  am  restoring  tranquillity ; 
and  the  general  character  and  situation  of  a  people  must  determine 
what  sort  of  government  is  fitted  for  them.  That  point  nothing 
else  can  or  ought  to  determine. 

My  idea,  therefore,  without  considering  whether  we  yield  as 
matter  of  right,  or  grant  as  matter  of  favor,  is  to  admit  the  people 
of  our  colonies  into  an  interest  i?t  the  constitution;  and,  by  record- 
ing that  admission  in  the  journals  of  Parliament,  to  give  them  as 
strong  an  assurance  as  the  nature  of  the  thing  will  admit,  that  we 
mean  forever  to  adhere  to  that  solemn  declaration  of  systematic 
indulgence. 

Some  years  ago,  the  repeal  of  a  revenue  act,  upon  its  under- 
stood principle,  might  have  served  to  show  that  we  intended  an 


WITH  THE  AMERICAN  COLONIES,  51 

unconditional  abatement  of  the  exercise  of  a  taxing  power.  Such 
a  measure  was  then  sufficient  to  remove  all  suspicion,  and  to  give 
perfect  content.  But  unfortunate  events  since  that  time  may 
make  something  further  necessary;  and  not  more  necessary  for 
the  satisfaction  of  the  colonies  than  for  the  dignity  and  con- 
sistency of  our  own  future  proceedings. 

I  have  taken  a  very  incorrect  measure  of  the  disposition  of  the 
House,  if  this  proposal  in  itself  would  be  received  with  dislike.  I 
think,  Sir,  we  have  few  American  financiers.  But  our  misfortune 
is,  we  are  too  acute;  we  are  too  exquisite  in  our  conjectures  of 
the  future,  for  men  oppressed  with  such  great  and  present  evils. 
The  more  moderate  among  the  opposers  of  parliamentary  conces- 
sion freely  confess  that  they  hope  no  good  from  taxation;  but 
they  apprehend  the  colonists  have  further  views,  and,  if  this  [)oint 
were  conceded,  they  would  instantly  attack  the  trade  laws. 
These  gentlemen  are  convinced  that  this  was  the  intention  from 
the  beginning,  and  the  quarrel  of  the  Americans  with  taxation 
was  no  more  than  a  cloak  and  cover  to  this  design.  Such 
has  been  the  language  even  of  a  gentleman  of  real  moder- 
ation, and  of  a  natural  temper  well  adjusted  to  fair  and  equal 
government.  I  am,  however.  Sir,  not  a  little  surprised  at  this 
kind  of  discourse,  whenever  I  hear  it;  and  I  am  the  more  sur- 
prised, on  account  of  the  arguments  which  I  constantly  find  in 
company  with  it,  and  which  are  often  urged  from  the  same 
mouths,  and  on  the  same  day. 

For  instance,  when  we  allege  that  it  is  against  reason  to  tax  a 
people  under  so  many  restraints  in  trade  as  the  Americans,  the 
noble  lord  in  the  blue  riband  shall  tell  you  that  the  restraints  on 
trade  are  futile  and  useless,  of  no  advantage  to  us,  and  of  no 
burthen  to  those  on  whom  they  are  imposed ;  that  the  trade  to 
America  is  not  secured  by  the  acts  of  navigation,  but  by  the 
natural  and  irresistible  advantage  of  a  commercial  preference. 

Such  is  the  merit  of  the  trade  laws  in  this  posture  of  the  de- 
bate. But  when  strong  internal  circumstances  are  urged  against 
the  taxes,  when  the  scheme  is  dissected,  when  experience  and 
the  nature  of  things  are  brought  to  prove  (and  do  prove)  the 


52  EDMUND  BURKE   ON  CONCILIATION 

Utter  impossibility  of  obtaining  an  effective  revenue  from  the 
colonies, —  when  these  things  are  pressed,  or  rather  press  them- 
selves, so  as  to  drive  the  advocates  of  colony  taxes  to  a  clear 
admission  of  the  futility  of  the  scheme, — then,  Sir,  the  sleeping 
trade  laws  revive  from  their  trance ;  and  this  useless  taxation  is 
to  be  kept  sacred,  not  for  its  own  sake,  but  as  a  counter-guard 
and  security  of  the  laws  of  trade. 

Then,  Sir,  you  keep  up  revenue  laws  which  are  mischievous,  in 
order  to  preserve  trade  laws  that  are  useless.  Such  is  the  wis- 
dom of  our  plan  in  both  its  members.  They  are  separately  given 
up  as  of  no  value  ;  and  yet  one  is  always  to  be  defended  for  the 
sake  of  the  other.  But  I  cannot  agree  with  the  noble  lord,  nor 
with  the  pamphlet  1  from  whence  he  seems  to  have  borrowed  these 
ideas  concerning  the  inutility  of  the  trade  laws.  For,  without 
idolizing  them,  I  am  sure  they  are  still,  in  many  ways,  of  great 
use  to  us ;  and  in  former  times  they  have  been  of  the  greatest. 
They  do  confine,  and  they  do  greatly  narrow,  the  market  for  the 
Americans.  But  my  perfect  conviction  of  this  does  not  help  me 
in  the  least  to  discern  how  the  revenue  laws  form  any  security 
whatsoever  to  the  commercial  regulations;  or  that  these  com- 
mercial regulations  are  the  true  ground  of  the  quarrel;  or  that 
the  giving  way,  in  any  one  instance,  of  authority  is  to  lose  all 
that  may  remain  unconceded. 

One  fact  is  clear  and  indisputable.  The  public  and  avowed 
origin  of  this  quarrel  was  on  taxation.  This  quarrel  has  indeed 
brought  on  new  disputes  on  new  questions;  but  certainly  the 
least  bitter,  and  the  fewest  of  all,  on  the  trade  laws.  To  judge 
which  of  the  two  be  the  real,  radical  cause  of  quarrel,  we  have 
to  see  whether  the  commercial  dispute  did,  in  order  of  time, 
precede  the  dispute  on  taxation  ?  There  is  not  a  shadow  of 
evidence  for  it.  Next,  to  enable  us  to  judge  whether  at  this 
moment  a  dislike  to  the  trade  laws  be  the  real  cause  of  quarrel, 
it  is  absolutely  necessary  to  put  the  taxes  out  of  the  question  by 

1  Written  by  Dr.  Tucker,  Dean  of  Gloucester,  who  wrote  tracts  on  politi- 
cal and  commercial  subjects,  and  advocated  granting  the  Americans  inde- 
pendence. 


WITH  THE  AMERICAN  COLONIES,  53 

a  repeal.  See  how  the  Americans  act  in  this  position,  and  then 
you  will  be  able  to  discern  correctly  what  is  the  true  object  of 
the  controversy,  or  whether  any  controversy  at  all  will  remain. 
Unless  you  consent  to  remove  this  cause  of  difference,  it  is  im- 
possible, with  decency,  to  assert  that  the  dispute  is  not  upon  what 
it  is  avowed  to  be.  And  I  would.  Sir,  recommend  to  your  seri- 
ous consideration,  whether  it  be  prudent  to  form  a  rule  for  pun- 
ishing people,  not  on  their  own  acts  but  on  your  conjectures  ? 
Surely  it  is  preposterous  at  the  very  best.  It  is  not  justifying 
your  anger  by  their  misconduct;  but  it  is  converting  your  ill- 
will  into  their  delinquency. 

But  the  colonies  will  go  further.  Alas !  alas !  When  will  this 
speculating  against  fact  and  reason  end  ?  What  will  quiet  these 
panic  fears  which  we  entertain  of  the  hostile  effect  of  a  concilia- 
tory conduct  ?  Is  it  true  that  no  case  can  exist  in  which  it  is 
proper  for  the  sovereign  to  accede  to  the  desires  of  his  discon- 
tented subjects  ?  Is  there  anything  peculiar  in  this  case,  to  make 
a  rule  for  itself?  Is  all  authority  of  course  lost,  when  it  is  not 
pushed  to  the  extreme  ?  Is  it  a  certain  maxim,  that  the  fewer 
causes  of  dissatisfaction  are  left  by  government,  the  more  the  sub- 
ject will  be  inclined  to  resist  and  rebel  ? 

All  these  objections  being  in  fact  no  more  than  suspicions,  con- 
jectures, divinations,  formed  in  defiance  of  fact  and  experience, 
they  did  not.  Sir,  discourage  me  from  entertaining  the  idea  of  a 
conciliatory  concession,  founded  on  the  principles  which  I  have 
just  stated. 

In  forming  a  plan  for  this  purpose,  I  endeavored  to  put  my- 
self in  that  frame  of  mind  which  was  the  most  natural,  and  the 
most  reasonable,  and  which  was  certainly  the  most  probable 
means  of  securing  me  from  all  error.  I  set  out  with  a  perfect 
distrust  of  my  own  abilities,  a  total  renunciation  of  every  specu- 
lation of  my  own,  and  with  a  profound  reverence  for  the  wisdom 
of  our  ancestors,  who  have  left  us  the  inheritance  of  so  happy  a 
constitution,  and  so  flourishing  an  empire,  and  —  what  is  a  thou- 
sand times  more  valuable  —  the  treasury  of  the  maxims  and  prin- 
ciples which  formed  the  one  and  obtained  the  other. 


54 


EDMUND  BURKE   ON  CONCILIATION 


During  the  reigns  of  the  Kings  of  Spain  of  the  Austrian  fam- 
ily,i  whenever  they  were  at  a  loss  in  the  Spanish  councils,  it  was 
common  for  their  statesmen  to  say  that  they  ought  to  consult 
the  genius  of  Phihp  1 1. 2  The  genius  of  Philip  II.  might  mislead 
them;  and  the  issue  of  their  affairs  showed  that  they  had  not 
chosen  the  most  perfect  standard.  But,  Sir,  I  am  sure  that  I 
sfiall  not  be  misled,  when,  in  a  case  of  constitutional  difficulty,  I 
consult  the  genius  of  the  English  constitution.  Consulting  at 
that  oracle  (it  was  with  all  due  humiHty  and  piety),  I  found  four 
capital  examples  in  a  similar  case  before  me :  those  of  Ireland^ 
Wales,  Chester,  and  Durham. 

Ireland,  before  the  EngHsh  conquest,  though  never  governed 
by  a  despotic  power,  had  no  Parhament.  How  far  the  English 
Parhament  itself  was  at  that  time  modeled  according  to  the 
present  form,  is  disputed  among  antiquarians.  But  we  have  all 
the  reason  in  the  world  to  be  assured  that  a  form  of  Parliament, 
such  as  England  then  enjoyed,  she  instantly  communicated  to 
Ireland ;  and  we  are  equally  sure  that  almost  every  successive 
improvement  in  constitutional  liberty,  as  fast  as  it  was  made 
here,  was  transmitted  thither.  The  feudal  baronage  and  the 
feudal  knighthood,  ^  the  roots  of  our  primitive  constitution,  were 
early  transplanted  into  that  soil,  and  grew  and  flourished  there. 
Magna  Charta,4  if  it  did  not  give  us  originally  the  House  of 
Commons,  gave  us  at  least  a  House  of  Commons  of  weight  and 

1  Charles  I.  of  Spain,  better  known  as  Emperor  Charles  V.  of  Germany, 
was  grandson  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella,  and  succeeded  his  grandfather  on 
the  throne  of  Spain.  His  mother  was  the  daughter  of  Ferdinand  and  Isa- 
bella, but  his  father  was  Archduke  of  Austria,  and  so  Charles  and  his  descen- 
dants, who  occupied  the  Spanish  throne  for  nearly  two  hundred  years,  are  some- 
times known  as  the  Kings  of  the  Austrian  family. 

2  King  of  Spain  from  1556  to  1598.  Spain  was  at  that  time  in  the  height 
of  her  prosperity. 

3  Burke  here  has  reference  to  the  early  English  system  of  land  tenure, 
government,  and  representation,  from  which  the  present  system  has  been 
gradually  evolved.  The  assembhes  convened  by  the  king  were  made  up  of 
nobles  (who  held  their  land  as  vassals  of  the  king)  and  bishops. 

4  The  great  charter  of  English  liberty,  extorted  from  King  John  by  the 
barons  in  12 15. 


WITH   THE  AMERICAN  COLONIES,  55 

consequence.  But  your  ancestors  did  not  churlishly  sit  down 
alone  to  the  feast  of  Magna  Charta.  Ireland  was  made  irnme- 
diately  a  partaker.  This  benefit  of  English  laws  and  liberties,  I 
confess,  was  not  at  first  extended  to  all  Ireland.  Mark  the  con- 
sequence. English  authority  and  English  liberties  had  exactly 
the  same  boundaries.  Your  standard  could  never  be  advanced 
an  inch  before  your  privileges.  Sir  John  Davies  ^  shows,  beyond 
a  doubt,  that  the  refusal  of  a  general  communication  of  these 
rights  was  the  true  cause  why  Ireland  was  five  hundred  years  in 
subduing;  and  after  the  vain  projects  of  a  military  government, 
attempted  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth,^  it  w^as  soon  discov- 
ered that  nothing  could  make  that  country  English  in  civility 
and  allegiance  but  your  laws  and  your  forms  of  legislature. 

It  was  not  English  arms,  but  the  English  constitution  that  con- 
quered Ireland.  From  that  time  Ireland  has  ever  had  a  general 
Parliament,  as  she  had  before  a  partial  Parliament.  You  changed 
the  people ;  you  altered  the  religion ;  but  you  never  touched  the 
form  or  the  vital  substance  of  free  government  in  that  kingdom. 
You  deposed  kings ;  you  restored  them ;  you  altered  the  succes- 
sion to  theirs,  as  well  as  to  your  own  Crown;  but  you  never  al- 
tered their  constitution,  the  principle  of  which  was  respected  by 
usurpation,  restored  with  the  restoration  of  monarchy,  and  estab- 
lished, I  trust,  for  ever,  by  the  glorious  Revolution.  ^  This  has 
made  Ireland  the  great  and  flourishing  kingdom  that  it  is,  and 
from  a  disgrace  and  a  burthen  intolerable  to  this  nation,  has  ren- 
dered her  a  principal  part  of  our  strength  and  ornament. 

This  country  cannot  be  said  to  have  ever  formally  taxed  her. 
The  irregular  things  done  in  the  confusion  of  mighty  troubles,  and 
on  the  hinge  of  great  revolutions,  even  if  all  were  done  that  is  said 
to  have  been  done,  form  no  example.     If  they  have  any  effect 

1  A  poet  and  statesman  (1570-1626),  who,  in  1603,  was  made  solicitor- 
general,  and  soon  after  attorney-general,  of  Ireland.  A  few  years  later  he 
published  a  valuable  work  on  the  political  condition  of  Ireland. 

2  Queen  of  England  from  1558  to  1603. 

3  The  Revolution  of  1688-89  i"  England,  in  which  the  doctrine  of  the  di- 
vine right  of  kings  received  its  death-blow,  and  the  supremacy  of  Parliament 
was  established, 


g6  EDMUND  BURKE   ON  CONCILIATION 

in  argument,  they  make  an  exception  to  prove  the  rule.  None 
of  your  own  hberties  could  stand  a  moment  if  the  casual  devia- 
tions from  them,  at  such  times,  were  suffered  to  be  used  as  proofs 
of  their  nullity.  By  the  lucrative  amount  of  such  casual  breaches 
in  the  constitution,  judge  what  the  stated  and  fixed  rule  of  supply 
has  been  in  that  kingdom.  Your  Irish  pensioners  would  starve 
if  they  had  no  other  fund  to  live  on  than  taxes  granted  by  Eng- 
lish authority.  Turn  your  eyes  to  those  popular  grants  from 
whence  all  your  great  supplies  are  come,  and  learn  to  respect 
that  only  source  of  public  wealth  in  the  British  Empire. 

My  next  example  is  Wales.  This  country  was  said  to  be  re- 
duced by  Henry  III.  i  It  was  said  more  truly  to  be  so  by  Ed- 
ward 1.2  But  though  then  conquered,  it  was  not  looked  upon 
as  any  part  of  the  realm  of  England.  Its  old  constitution,  what- 
ever that  might  have  been,  was  destroyed ;  and  no  good  one  was 
substituted  in  its  place.  The  care  of  that  tract  was  put  into  the 
hands  of  lords  marchers  ^  —  a  form  of  government  of  a  very  singu- 
lar kind,  a  strange  heterogeneous  monster,  something  between 
hostihty  and  government;  perhaps  it  has  a  sort  of  resemblance, 
according  to  the  modes  of  those  times,  to  that  of  commander  in 
chief  at  present,  to  whom  all  civil  power  is  granted  as  secondary. 
The  manners  of  the  Welsh  nation  followed  the  genius  of  the  gov- 
ernment. The  people  were  ferocious,  restive,  savage,  and  unculti- 
vated ;  sometimes  composed,  never  pacified.  Wales,  within  itself, 
was  in  perpetual  disorder ;  and  it  kept  the  frontier  of  England  in 
perpetual  alarm.  Benefits  from  it  to  the  state  there  were  none; 
Wales  was  only  known  to  England  by  incursion  and  invasion. 

^Sir,  during  that  state  of  things,  Parliament  was  not  idle.  They 
attempted  to  subdue  the  fierce  spirit  of  the  Welsh  by  all  sorts  of 
vigorous  laws.     They  prohibited  by  statute  the  sending  all  sorts 

1  King  of  England  from  1216  lo  1272. 

2  King  of  England  from  1272  to  1307.  Wales  gave  allegiance  to  Henry  III. 
at  times,  when  compelled  to  do  so,  but  was  not  fully  conquered  until  the  time 
of  Edward  I. 

3  The  lords  marchers  were  officers  appointed  by  England  to  keep  order  in 
the  marches,  or  border  lands,  of  Wales, 


WITH  THE  AMERICAN  COLONIES.  57 

of  arms  into  Wales,  as  you  prohibit  by  proclamation  (with  some- 
thing more  of  doubt  on  the  legality)  the  sending  arms  to  America. 
They  disarmed  the  Welsh  by  statute,  as  you  attempted  (but  still 
with  more  question  on  the  legality)  to  disarm  New  England  by 
an  instruction.!  They  made  an  act  to  drag  offenders  from  Wales 
into  England  for  trial,  as  you  have  done  (but  with  more  hardship) 
with  regard  to  America,  By  another  act,  where  one  of  the  par- 
ties was  an  Englishman,  they  ordained  that  his  trial  should  be 
always  by  English.  They  made  acts  to  restrain  trade,  as  you  do; 
and  they  prevented  the  Welsh  from  the  use  of  fairs  and  markets, 
as  you  do  the  Americans  from  fisheries  and  foreign  ports.  In 
short,  when  the  statute  book  was  not  quite  so  much  swelled  as  it 
is  now,  you  find  no  less  than  fifteen  acts  of  penal  regulation  on 
the  subject  of  Wales. 

Here  we  rub  our  hands  —  a  fine  body  of  precedents  for  the 
authority  of  Parliament  and  the  use  of  it !  I  admit  it  fully ;  and 
pray  add  likewise  to  these  precedents,  that  all  the  while  Wales 
rid  2  this  kingdom  like  an  incubus ;  ^  that  it  was  an  unprofitable 
and  oppressive  burthen;  and  that  an  Englishman  traveling  in 
that  country  could  not  go  six  yards  from  the  highroad  without 
being  murdered. 

The  march  of  the  human  mind  is  slow.  Sir,  it  was  not,  until 
after  two  hundred  years,  discovered  that  by  an  eterrfal  law  Provi- 
dence had  decreed  vexation  to  violence,  and  poverty  to  rapine. 
Your  ancestors  did,  however,  at  length  open  their  eyes  to  the  ill- 
husbandry  of  injustice.  They  found  that  the  tyranny  of  a  free 
people  could,  of  all  tyrannies,  the  least  be  endured ;  and  that  laws 
made  against  a  whole  nation  were  not  the  most  effectual  methods 
for  securing  its  obedience.  Accordingly,  in  the  twenty-seventh 
year  of  Henry  VIII.  the  course  was  entirely  altered.  With  a 
preamble  stating  the  entire  and  perfect  rights  of  the  Crown  of 
England,  it  gave  to  the  Welsh  all  the  rights  and  privileges  of 
Enghsh  subjects.     A  political  order  was  estabHshed;  the  mili- 

1  That  is,  by  an  order  to  Gage,  the  commander  in  America. 

2  Old  form  of  "rode." 

3  Nightmare. 


58  EDMUND  BURKE   ON  CONCILIATION 

tary  power  gave  way  to  the  civil ;  the  marches  were  turned  into 
counties.  But  that  a  nation  should  have  a  right  to  English  liber- 
ties, and  yet  no  share  at  all  in  the  fundamental  security  of  these 
liberties, —  the  grant  of  their  own  property, —  seemed  a  thing  so 
incongruous,  that  eight  years  after,  that  is,  in  the  thirty-fifth  of 
that  reign,  a  complete  and  not  ill-proportioned  ref)resentation  by 
counties  and  boroughs  was  bestowed  upon  Wales  by  act  of  Parlia- 
ment. From  that  moment,  as  by  a  charm,  the  tumults  subsided ; 
obedience  was  restored ;  peace,  order,  and  civilization  followed  in 
the  train  of  liberty.  When  the  day-star  of  the  English  constitu- 
tion  had    arisen   in  their  hearts,  all  was  harmony  within  and 

without. 

—  Simul  alba  nautis 
Stella  refulsit, 
Defluit  saxis  agitattis  hu7nor, 
Concidunt  venti^  fugiuntque  nubeSy 
Et  minax  (quod  sic  voluere)  ponto 
Unda  recumbit^- 

The  very  same  year  the  county  palatine  2  of  Chester  received 
the  same  relief  from  its  oppressions,  and  the  same  remedy  to  its 
disorders.  Before  this  time  Chester  was  little  less  distempered 
than  Wales.  The  inhabitants,  without  rights  themselves,  were 
fittest  to  destroy  the  rights  of  others ;  and  from  thence  Richard  11.^ 
drew  the  standing  army  of  archers,  with  which  for  a  time  he  op- 
pressed England.  The  people  of  Chester  applied  to  Parliament 
in  a  petition  penned  as  I  shall  read  it  to  you : 

1  "  As  soon  as  the  clear-shining  constellation  has  shone  forth  to  the  sailors, 
the  troubled  surge  falls  down  from  the  rocks,  the  winds  cease,  the  clouds  van- 
ish, and  the  threatening  waves  subside  in  the  sea, —  because  it  was  their  will." 
—  Horace,  Ode  to  Augustus,  i.  12  (Smart's  trans.). 

2  A  county  palatine  in  England  was  so  called  because  the  owner,  or  holder, 
was  entitled  to  special  privileges  and  prerogatives,  like  a  king  in  his  palace. 
He  appointed  his  own  officers  of  justice,  and  could  pardon  crimes  committed 
within  his  territory.  There  were  three  counties  palatine  in  England  —  Tan- 
caster,  Chester,  and  Durham,  the  two  first-named  in  the  eastern  part,  an'^  the 
last  in  the  northern. 

3  King  of  England  from  1377  to  1399. 


WITH  THE  AMERICAN  COLONIES,  59 

"  To  the  king  our  sovereign  lord,  in  most  humble  wise  shown 
unto  your  excellent  Majesty,  the  inhabitants  of  your  Grace's 
county  palatine  of  Chester :  That  where  the  said  county  palatine 
of  Chester  is  and  hath  been  alw^ays  hitherto  exempt,  excluded  and 
separated  out  and  from  your  high  court  of  Parliament,  to  have 
any  knights  and  burgesses  within  the  said  court;  by  reason  whereof 
the  said  inhabitants  have  hitherto  sustained  manifold  disherisons,  i 
losses,  and  damages,  as  well  in  their  lands,  goods,  and  bodies,  as 
in  the  good,  civil,  and  politic  governance  and  maintenance  of  the 
commonwealth  of  their  said  country:  (2)  And  forasmuch  as  the 
said  inhabitants  have  always  hitherto  been  bound  by  the  acts  and 
statutes  made  and  ordained  by  your  said  Highness,  and  your 
most  noble  progenitors,  by  authority  of  the  said  court,  as  far  forth 
as  other  counties,  cities,  and  boroughs  have  been,  that  have  had 
their  knights  and  burgesses  within  your  said  court  of  Parliament, 
and  yet  have  had  neither  knight  ne  ^  burgess  there  for  the  said 
county  palatine ;  the  said  inhabitants,  for  lack  thereof,  have  been 
oftentimes  touched  and  grieved  with  acts  and  statutes  made  within 
the  said  court,  as  well  derogatory  unto  the  most  ancient  jurisdic- 
tions, liberties,  and  privileges  of  your  said  county  palatine,  as  pre- 
judicial unto  the  commonwealth,  quietness,  rest,  and  peace  of 
your  Grace's  most  bounden  subjects  inhabiting  within  the  same." 

What  did  Parliament  with  this  audacious  address  ?  Reject  it 
as  a  libel  ?  Treat  it  as  an  affront  to  government  ?  Spurn  it  as  a 
derogation  from  the  rights  of  legislature  ?  Did  they  toss  it  over 
the  table  ?  Did  they  burn  it  by  the  hands  of  the  common  hang- 
man ?  They  took  the  petition  of  grievance,  all  rugged  as  it  was, 
without  softening  or  temperament,  unpurged  of  the  original  bitter- 
ness and  indignation  of  complaint;  they  made  it  the  very  pre- 
amble to  their  act  of  redress,  and  consecrated  its  principle  to  all 
ages  in  the  sanctuary  of  legislation. 

Here  is  my  third  example.  It  was  attended  with  the  success 
of  the  two  former.  Chester,  civilized  as  well  as  Wales,  has  dem- 
onstrated that  freedom,  and  not  servitude,  is  the  cure  of  anarchy; 

1  Acts  of  disinheritance ;  here  it  means  deprivations.    2  Old  form  of  "  nor." 


6o  EDMUND  BURKE  ON  CONCILiATlON 

as  religion,  and  not  atheism,  is  the  true  remedy  for  superstition. 
Sir,  this  pattern  of  Chester  was  followed  in  the  reign  of  Charles 
II.  1  with  regard  to  the  county  palatine  of  Durham,  which  is  my 
fourth  example.  This  county  had  long  lain  out  of  the  pale  of 
free  legislation.  So  scrupulously  was  the  example  of  Chester 
followed,  that  the  style  of  the  preamble  is  nearly  the  same  with 
that  of  the  Chester  act;  and,  without  affecting  the  abstract  ex- 
tent of  the  authority  of  Parliament,  it  recognizes  the  equity  of  not 
suffering  any  considerable  district,  in  which  the  British  subjects  may 
act  as  a  body,  to  be  taxed  without  their  own  voice  in  the  grant. 

Now,  if  the  doctrines  of  policy  contained  in  these  preambles, 
and  the  force  of  these  examples  in  the  acts  of  Parliament  avail 
anything,  what  can  be  said  against  applying  them  with  regard  to 
America?  Are  not  the  people  of  America  as  much  Englishmen 
as  the  Welsh  ?  The  preamble  of  the  act  of  Henry  VIII.  says 
the  Welsh  speak  a  language  no  way  resembling  that  of  his  Maj- 
esty's English  subjects.  Are  the  Americans  not  as  numerous  ? 
If  we  may  trust  the  learned  and  accurate  Judge  Barrington's  ac- 
count of  North  Wales,  and  take  that  as  a  standard  to  measure 
the  rest,  there  is  no  comparison.  The  people  cannot  amount  to 
above  200,000 — not  a  tenth  part  of  the  number  in  the  colonies. 
Is  America  in  rebellion  ?  Wales  was  hardly  ever  free  from  it. 
Have  you  attempted  to  govern  America  by  penal  statutes  ?  You 
made  fifteen  for  Wales.  But  your  legislative  authority  is  perfect 
with  regard  to  America ;  was  it  less  perfect  in  Wales,  Chester,  and 
Durham  ?  But  America  is  virtually  represented.  What !  Does 
the  electric  force  of  virtual  representation  more  easily  pass  over 
the  Atlantic  than  pervade  Wales,  which  Hes  in  your  neighbor- 
hood; or  than  Chester  and  Durham,  surrounded  by  abundance 
of  representation  that  is  actual  and  palpable  ?  But,  Sir,  your  an- 
cestors thought  this  sort  of  virtual  representation,  however  ample, 
to  be  totally  insufficient  for  the  freedom  of  the  inhabitants  of  ter- 
ritories that  are  so  near,  and  comparatively  so  inconsiderable. 
How,  then,  can  I  think  it  sufficient  for  those  which  are  infinitely 
greater,  and  infinitely  more  remote  ? 

1  King  of  England  from  1660  to  1685. 


WITH  THE  AMERICAN  COLONIES.  6i 

You  will  now,  Sir,  perhaps  imagine  that  I  am  on  the  point  of 
proposing  to  you  a  scheme  for  a  representation  of  the  colonies  in 
Parliament.  Perhaps  I  might  be  inclined  to  entertain  some  such 
thought;  but  a  great  flood  stops  me  in  my  course.  Opposuit  na- 
tura'^ — I  cannot  remove  the  eternal  barriers  of  the  creation. 
The  thing  in  that  mode  I  do  not  know  to  be  possible.  As  I 
meddle  with  no  theory,  I  do  not  absolutely  assert  the  impractica- 
bility of  such  a  representation.  But  I  do  not  see  my  way  to  it ; 
and  those  who  have  been  more  confident  have  not  been  more 
successful.  However,  the  arm  of  public  benevolence  is  not  short- 
ened, and  there  are  often  several  means  to  the  same  end.  What 
nature  has  disjoined  in  one  way,  wisdom  may  unite  in  another. 
When  we  cannot  give  the  benefit  as  we  would  wish,  let  us  not  re- 
fuse it  altogether.  If  we  cannot  give  the  principal,  let  us  find  a 
substitute.     But  how  ?     Where  ?     What  substitute  ? 

Fortunately,  I  am  not  obliged,  for  the  ways  and  means  of  this 
substitute,  to  tax  my  own  unproductive  invention.  I  am  not  even 
obliged  to  go  to  the  rich  treasury  of  the  fertile  framers  of  imaginary 
commonwealths  —  not  to  the  "  Republic  "  of  Plato  2 ;  not  to  the 
"  Utopia  "  of  More  ^ ;  not  to  the  "  Oceana  "  of  Harrington. 4  It  is 
before  me ;  it  is  at  my  feet, 

And  the  dull  swain 
Treads  on  it  daily  with  his  clouted  shoon.^ 
♦ 

1  "Nature  has  erected  barriers." 

2  A  great  Greek  philosopher,  born  about  429  B.  c.  He  was  a  disciple  of 
Socrates,  whose  teachings  he  gives  us  in  his  Dialogues.  His  Republic  is  a 
picture  of  an  ideal  state  where  the  most  perfect  justice  prevails. 

3  Sir  Thomas  More  (1480- 1535),  an  eminent  philosopher  and  statesman. 
In  15 16  he  produced  his  famous  work,  Utopia.  The  nam-e  is  derived  from 
a  Greek  word  meaning  "nowhere,"  and  the  book  is  a  description  of  an  imag- 
inary commonwealth,  where  the  citizens  had  all  things  in  common,  and  the 
administration  of  law  and  justice  were  perfect.  By  contrast  he  showed  the 
evils  of  the  then  existing  government  in  England.  The  adjective  "Utopian  " 
is  now  applied  to  any  visionary  and  impracticable  scheme  of  reform. 

4  James  Harrington  (1611-1677),  an  English  writer,  whose  principal  work, 
Oceana,  a  political  allegory,  describes  an  ideal  republic  supposed  to  repre- 
sent England.     The  project  was  generaifly  considered  highly  impracticable. 

5  See  Milton,  Comus,  lines  634,635.  "Clouted  shoon,"  i.e.,  hobnailed 
shoes. 


62  EDMUND  BURKE   ON  CONCILIATION 

I  only  wish  you  to  recognize,  for  the  theory,  the  ancient  constitu- 
tional policy  of  this  kingdom  with  regard  to  representation,  as 
that  policy  has  been  declared  in  acts  of  ParHament ;  and,  as  to 
the  practice,  to  return  to  that  mode  which  an  uniform  experience 
has  marked  out  to  you  as  best,  and  in  which  you  walked  with 
security,  advantage,  and  honor  until  the  year  1763. 

My  resolutions,  therefore,  mean  to  establish  the  equity  and  jus- 
tice of  a  taxation  of  America  by  grants  and  not  by  imposition; 
to  mark  the  legal  competency  of  the  colony  assemblies  for  the 
support  of  their  government  in  peace,  and  for  pubhc  aids  in  time 
of  war;  to  acknowledge  that  this  legal  competency  has  had  a 
dutiful  and  beneficial  exercise^  and  that  experience  has  shown  the 
benefit  of  their  grants  and  the  futility  of  parliamentary  taxation 
as  a  method  of  supply. 

These  solid  truths  compose  six  fundamental  propositions. 
There  are  three  more  resolutions  corollary  to  these.  If  you  admit 
the  first  set,  you  can  hardly  reject  the  others.  But  if  you  admit 
the  first,  I  shall  be  far  from  solicitous  whether  you  accept  or  refuse 
the  last.  I  think  these  six  massive  pillars  will  be  of  strength  suffi- 
cient to  support  the  temple  of  British  concord.  ^  I  have  no  more 
doubt  than  I  entertain  of  my  existence  that,  if  you  admitted  these^ 
you  would  command  an  immediate  peace,  and,  with  but  tolerable 
future  management,  a  lasting  obedience  in  America.  I  am  not 
arrogant  in  this  confident  assurance.  The  propositions  are  all 
mere  matters  of  fact ;  and  if  they  are  such  facts  as  draw  irresistible 
conclusions  even  in  the  stating,  this  is  the  power  of  truth,  and  not 
any  management  of  mine. 

Sir,  I  shall  open  the  whole  plan  to  you,  together  with  such  ob- 
servations on  the  motions  as  may  tend  to  illustrate  them  where 
they  may  want  explanation.  The  first  is  a  resolution :  "  That 
the  colonies  and  plantations  of  Great  Britain  in  North  America, 
consisting  of  fourteen  separate  governments,  and  containing  two 
millions  and  upwards  of  free  inhabitants,  have  not  had  the  liberty 

1  An  allusion  to  the  Temple  of  Concord  at  Rome,  built  at  the  head  of  the 
Forum.  The  ruins  of  the  latest  building,  which  was  erected  by  the  Emperor 
Tiberius,  may  still  be  seen- 


WITH  THE  AMERICAN  COLONIES,  63 

and  privilege  of  electing  and  sending  any  knights  and  burgesses, 
or  others,  to  represent  them  in  the  high  court  of  Parliament." 
This  is  a  plain  matter  of  fact,  necessary  to  be  laid  down,  and  (ex- 
cepting the  description)  it  is  laid  down  in  the  language  of  the  con- 
stitution ;  it  is  taken  nearly  verbatim  from  acts  of  Parliament. 

The  second  is  like  unto  the  first :  "  That  the  said  colonies  and 
plantations  have  been  liable  to,  and  bounden  by,  several  subsidies, 
payments,  rates,  and  taxes,  given  and  granted  by  Parhament, 
though  the  said  colonies  and  plantations  have  not  their  knights 
and  burgesses  in  the  said  high  court  of  Parliament,  of  their  own 
election,  to  represent  the  condition  of  their  country;  by  lack 
whereof  they  have  been  oftentimes  touched  and  grieved  by  sub- 
sidies given,  granted,  and  assented  to,  in  the  said  court,  in  a  man- 
ner prejudicial  to  the  commonwealth,  quietness,  rest,  and  peace 
of  the  subjects  inhabiting  within  the  same." 

Is  this  description  too  hot  or  too  cold,  too  strong  or  too 
weak  ?  Does  it  arrogate  too  much  to  the  supreme  legislature  ? 
Does  it  lean  too  much  to  the  claims  of  the  people  ?  If  it  runs 
into  any  of  these  errors,  the  fault  is  not  mine.  It  is  the  language 
of  your  own  ancient  acts  of  Parliament. 

Nee  meus  hie  sermo  est,  sed  qtiee  p7'ceeepit  Ofellus, 
RustieuSy  abnormis  sapiens.  ^ 

It  is  the  genuine  produce  of  the  ancient,  rustic,  manly,  home-bred 
sense  of  this  country.  I  did  not  dare  to  rub  off  a  particle  of  the 
venerable  rust  that  rather  adorns  and  preserves  than  destroys  the 
metal.  It  would  be  a  profanation  to  touch  with  a  tool  the  stones 
which  construct  the  sacred  altar  of  peace.  I  would  not  violate 
with  modem  polish  the  ingenuous  and  noble  roughness  of  these 
truly  constitutional  materials.  Above  all  things,  I  was  resolved 
not  to  be  guilty  of  tampering  —  the  odious  vice  of  restless  and  un- 
stable minds.  I  put  my  foot  in  the  tracks  of  our  forefathers, 
where  I  can  neither  wander  nor  stumble.     Determining  to  fix 

1  "  This  is  no  doctrine  of  mine,  but  what  Ofellus  the  peasant,  a  philosopher 
without  rules,  taught  me."  —  Horace,  Sat.  ii.  2  (Smart's  trans.). 


64  EDMUND  BURKE   ON  CONCILIATION 

articles  of  peace,  I  was  resolved  not  to  be  wise  beyond  what  was 
written ;  I  was  resolved  to  use  nothing  else  than  the  form  of  sound 
words,  to  let  others  abound  in  their  own  sense,  and  carefully  to 
abstain  from  all  expressions  of  my  own.  What  the  law  has  said, 
I  say.  In  all  things  else  I  am  silent.  I  have  no  organ  but  for 
her  words.     This,  if  it  be  not  ingenious,  I  am  sure  is  safe. 

There  are  indeed  words  expressive  of  grievance  in  this  second 
resolution,  which  those  who  are  resolved  always  to  be  in  the  right 
will  deny  to  contain  matter  of  fact,  as  applied  to  the  present  case, 
although  Parliament  thought  them  true  with  regard  to  the  coun- 
ties of  Chester  and  Durham.  They  will  deny  that  the  Americans 
were  ever  "  touched  and  grieved  "  with  the  taxes.  If  they  consider 
nothing  in  taxes  but  their  weight  as  pecuniary  impositions,  there 
might  be  some  pretense  for  this  denial.  But  men  may  be  sorely 
touched  and  deeply  grieved  in  their  privileges,  as  well  as  in  their 
purses.  Men  may  lose  little  in  property  by  the  act  which  takes 
away  all  their  freedom.  When  a  man  is  robbed  of  a  trifle  on  the 
highway,  it  is  not  the  twopence  lost  that  constitutes  the  capi- 
tal outrage.  This  is  not  confined  to  privileges.  Even  ancient 
indulgences  withdrawn,  without  offense  on  the  part  of  those  who 
enjoyed  such  favors,  operate  as  grievances. 

But  were  the  Americans,  then,  not  touched  and  grieved  by  the 
taxes,  in  some  measure,  merely  as  taxes  ?  If  so,  why  were  they 
almost  all  either  wholly  repealed  or  exceedingly  reduced  ?  Were 
they  not  touched  and  grieved  even  by  the  regulating  duties  of 
the  sixth  i  of  George  II.  ?  ^  Else  why  were  the  duties  first  reduced 
to  one  third  in  1764,  and  afterwards  to  a  third  of  that  third  in 
the  year  1766  ?  Were  they  not  touched  and  grieved  by  the  Stamp 
Act? 3  I  shall  say  they  were,  until  that  tax  is  revived.  Were 
they  not  touched  and  grieved  by  the  duties  of  1767,  which  wea-e 

1  Supply  "act."  * 

2  King  of  England  from  1727  to  1760. 

3  A  bill  proposed  in  Parliament  by  George  Grenville  in  1765,  by  whicli  all 
paper  bearing  the  government  stamp  in  America  was  to  be  subject  to  a  duty, 
and  all  legal  documents  must  be  written  on  such  paper.  The  American  col- 
onies refused  to  submit  to  this  duty,  and  the  act  was  repealed  in  1 766. 


WITH  THE  AMERICAN  COLONIES,  65 

likewise  repealed,  and  which  Lord  Hillsborough  tells  you  (for 
the  ministry)  were  laid  contrary  to  the  true  principle  of  com- 
merce ?  Is  not  the  assurance  given,  by  that  noble  person,  to 
the  colonies  of  a  resolution  to  lay  no  more  taxes  on  them,  an 
admission  that  taxes  would  touch  and  grieve  them  ?  Is  not 
the  resolution  of  the  noble  lord  in  the  blue  riband,  now  stand- 
ing on  your  journals,  the  strongest  of  all  proofs  that  parliamen- 
tary subsidies  really  touched  and  grieved  them  ?  Else  why 
all  these  changes,  modifications,  repeals,  assurances,  and  reso- 
lutions ? 

The  next  proposition  is :  "•  That,  from  the  distance  of  the  said 
colonies,  and  from  other  circumstances,  no  method  hath  hitherto 
been  devised  for  procuring  a  representation  in  Parliament  for  the 
said  colonies."  This  is  an  assertion  of  a  fact.  I  go  no  further  on 
the  paper,  though,  in  my  private  judgment,  an  useful  representa- 
tion is  impossible.  I  am  sure  it  is  not  desired  by  them,  nor  ought 
it  be  perhaps  by  us ;  but  I  abstain  from  opinions. 

The  fourth  resolution  is :  "  That  each  of  the  said  colonies  hath 
within  itself  a  body,  chosen  in  part,  or  in  the  whole,  by  the  free- 
men, freeholders,  or  other  free  inhabitants  thereof,  commonly 
called  the  general  assembly,  or  general  court;  with  powers  le- 
gally to  raise,  levy,  and  assess,  according  to  the  several  usage  of 
such  colonies,  duties  and  taxes  towards  defraying  all  sorts  of  pub- 
lic services. 

This  competence  in  the  colony  assembHes  is  certain.  It  is 
proved  by  the  whole  tenor  of  their  acts  of  supply  in  all  the  assem- 
blies, in  which  the  constant  style  of  granting  is,  "  an  aid  to  his 
Majesty ;  "  and  acts  granting  to  the  Crown  have  regularly,  for 
near  a  century,  passed  the  public  offices  without  dispute.  Those 
who  have  been  pleased  paradoxically  to  deny  this  right,  holding 
that  none  but  the  British  Parliament  can  grant  to  the  Crown,  are 
wished  to  look  to  what  is  done,  not  only  in  the  colonies,  but  in 
Ireland,  in  one  uniform  unbroken  tenor  every  session.  Sir,  I  am 
surprised  that  this  doctrine  should  come  from  some  of  the  law 
servants  of  the  Crown.  I  say,  that  if  the  Crown  could  be 
responsible,  his  Majesty,  but  certainly  the  ministers,  and  even 


66  EDMUND  BURKE   ON  CONCILIATION 

these  law  officers  themselves  through  whose  hands  the  acts  pass 
biennially  in  Ireland,  or  annually  in  the  colonies,  are  in  an  habit- 
ual course  of  committing  impeachable  offenses.  What  habitual 
offenders  have  been  all  presidents  of  the  council,  all  secretaries  of 
state,  all  first  lords  of  trade,  all  attorneys,  and  all  solicitors  general ! 
However,  they  are  safe,  as  no  one  impeaches  them ;  and  there  is 
no  ground  of  charge  again  ,t  them,  except  in  their  own  un- 
founded theories. 

The  fifth  resolution  is  also  a  resolution  of  fact :  "  That  the  said 
general  assemblies,  general  courts,  or  other  bodies  legally  qualified 
as  aforesaid,  have  at  sundry  times  freely  granted  several  large 
subsidies  and  public  aids  for  his  Majesty's  service,  according  to 
their  abilities,  when  required  thereto  by  letter  from  one  of  his 
Majesty's  principal  secretaries  of  state;  and  that  their  right  to 
grant  the  same,  and  their  cheerfulness  and  sufficiency  in  the  said 
grants,  have  been  at  sundry  times  acknowledged  by  Parliament." 
To  say  nothing  of  their  great  expenses  in  the  Indian  wars ;  and 
not  to  take  their  exertion  in  foreign  ones,  so  high  as  the  supplies 
in  the  year  1695  \  "^^^  ^^  g^  back  to  their  pubHc  contributions  in 
the  year  1710  :  I  shall  begin  to  travel  only  where  the  journals  give 
me  hght,  resolving  to  deal  in  nothing  but  fact,  authenticated  by 
parliamentary  record,  and  to  build  myself  wholly  on  that  soHd 
basis. 

On  the  4th  of  April,  1748,  a  committee  of  this  House  came  to 
the  following  resolution : 

"  Resolved, 
"  That  it  is  the  opinion  of  this  committee.  That  it  is  just  and 
reasonable  that  the  several  provinces  and  colonies  of  Massachu- 
setts Bay,  New  Hampshire,  Connecticut,  and  Rhode  Island,  be 
reimbursed  the  expenses  they  have  been  at  in  taking  and  securing 
to  the  Crown  of  Great  Britain  the  island  of  Cape  Breton  and  its 
dependencies." 

These  expenses  were  immense  for  such  colonies.  They  were 
above  ^200,000  sterHng  —money  first  raised  and  advanced  on 
their  public  credit. 


WITH  THE  AMERICAN  COLONIES,  67 

On  the  28th  of  January,  1756,  a  message  from  the  kingi  came 
to  us,  to  this  effect : 

"  His  Majesty,  being  sensible  of  the  zeal  and  vigor  with  which 
his  faithful  subjects  of  certain  colonies  in  North  America  have 
exerted  themselves  in  defense  of  his  Majesty's  just  rights  and 
possessions,  recommends  it  to  this  House  to  take  the  same  into 
their  consideration,  and  to  enable  his  Majesty  to  give  them  such 
assistance  as  may  be  a  p7'oper  reward  and  encouraged/tent.'" 

On  the  3d  of  February,  1756,  the  House  came  to  a  suitable 
resolution,  expressed  in  words  nearly  the  same  as  those  of  the 
message ;  but  with  the  further  addition,  that  the  money  then  voted 
was  as  an  encouragement  to  the  colonies  to  exert  themselves  with 
vigor.  It  will  not  be  necessary  to  go  through  all  the  testimonies 
which  your  own  records  have  given  to  the  truth  of  my  resolutions, 
I  will  only  refer  you  to  the  places  in  the  journals  : 

Vol.  xxvii. — 1 6th  and  19th  May,  1757. 

Vol.  xxviii. — June  ist,   1758  —  April  26th  and  30th,   1759  — 

March  26th  and  31st,  and  April   28th,    1760  — 

Jan.  9th  and  20th,  1761. 
Vol.  xxix. — Jan.    22d    and     26th,    1762  —  March    14th   and 

17th,  1763. 

Sir,  here  is  the  repeated  acknowledgment  of  Parliament,  that 
the  colonies  not  only  gave,  but  gave  to  satiety.  This  nation  has 
formally  acknowledged  two  things :  first,  that  the  colonies  had 
gone  beyond  their  abilities.  Parliament  having  thought  it  neces- 
sary to  reimburse  them ;  secondly,  that  they  had  acted  legally  and 
laudably  in  their  grants  of  money,  and  their  maintenance  of 
troops,  since  the  compensation  is  expressly  given  as  reward  and 
encouragement.  Reward  is  not  bestowed  for  acts  that  are  unlaw- 
ful; and  encouragement  is  not  held  out  to  things  that  deserve 
reprehension.  My  resolution,  therefore,  does  nothing  more  than 
collect  into  one  proposition,  what  is  scattered  through  your  jour- 
nals.    I  give  you  nothing  but  your  own ;  and  you  cannot  refuse 

1  George  II.  was  then  king. 


68  EDMUND  BURKE   ON  CONCILIATION 

in  the  gross,  what  you  have  so  often  acknowledged  in  detail. 
The  admission  of  this,  which  will  be  so  honorable  to  them  and 
to  you,  will,  indeed,  be  mortal,  i  to  all  the  miserable  stories  by 
which  the  passions  of  the  misguided  people  have  been  engaged  in 
an  unhappy  system.  The  people  heard,  indeed,  from  the  begin- 
ning of  these  disputes,  one  thing  continually  dinned  in  their  ears : 
that  reason  and  justice  demanded  that  the  Americans,  who  paid 
no  taxes,  should  be  compelled  to  contribute.  How  did  that  fact 
of  their  paying  nothing  stand,  when  the  taxing  system  began  ? 
When  Mr.  Grenville^  began  to  form  his  system  of  American 
revenue,  he  stated  in  this  House  that  the  colonies  were  then  in 
debt  two  million  six  hundred  thousand  pounds  sterling  money, 
and  was  of  opinion  they  would  discharge  that  debt  in  four  years. 
On  this  state,  those  untaxed  people  were  actually  subject  to  the 
payment  of  taxes  to  the  amount  of  six  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
a  year.  In  fact,  however,  Mr.  Grenville  was  mistaken.  The 
funds  given  for  sinking  the  debt  did  not  prove  quite  so  ample  as 
both  the  colonies  and  he  expected.  The  calculation  was  too  san- 
guine ;  the  reduction  was  not  completed  till  some  years  after,  and 
at  different  times  in  different  colonies.  However,  the  taxes  after 
the  war  continued  too  great  to  bear  any  addition,  with  prudence 
or  propriety ;  and  when  the  burthens  imposed  in  consequence  of 
former  requisitions  were  discharged,  our  tone  became  too  high  to 
resort  again  to  requisition.  No  colony,  since  that  time,  ever  has 
had  any  requisition  whatsoever  made  to  it. 

We  see  the  sense  of  the  Crown,  and  the  sense  of  Parliament, 
on  the  productive  nature  of  a  revemie  by  grant  Now  search  the 
same  journals  for  the  produce  of  the  revenue  by  impositio7i  — 
Where  is  it  ?  Let  us  know  the  volume  and  the  page.  What  is 
the  gross,  what  is  the  net  produce  ?     To  what  service  is  it  ap- 

1  Fatal. 

2  Hon.  George  Grenville  (171 2-1 770),  who  held  the  position  of  Prime  Min- 
ister of  England  from  1763  to  1765,  is  noted  as  being  the  author  of  the  Stamp 
Act.  He  was  an  able  man,  but  self-willed  and  dictatorial,  and  the  king,  who 
at  first  liked  him  because  of  his  high-handed  policy  with  the  colonies,  came 
soon  to  hate  him,  and  dismissed  him  from  the  position  of  his  chief  adviser. 


IVITII  THE  AMERICAN  COLONIES,  69 

plied?  How  have  you  appropriated  its  surplus?  What,  can 
none  of  the  many  skillful  index-makers  that  we  are  now  employ- 
ing find  any  trace  of  it  ?  Well,  let  them  and  that  rest  together. 
But  are  the  journals,  which  say  nothing  of  the  revenue,  as  silent 
on  the  discontent  ?  Oh,  no  !  a  child  may  find  it.  It  is  the  mel- 
ancholy burthen  and  blot  of  every  page. 

I  think  then  I  am,  from  those  journals,  justified  in  the  sixth 
and  last  resolution,  which  is :  "  That  it  hath  been  found  by  ex- 
perience, that  the  manner  of  granting  the  said  suppHes  and  aids, 
by  the  said  general  assemblies,  hath  been  more  agreeable  to  the 
said  colonies,  and  more  beneficial,  and  conducive  to  the  public 
service,  than  the  mode  of  giving  and  granting  aids  in  Parliament, 
to  be  raised  and  paid  in  the  said  colonies." 

This  makes  the  whole  of  the  fundamental  part  of  the  plan. 
The  conclusion  is  irresistible.  You  cannot  say  that  you  were 
driven  by  any  necessity  to  an  exercise  of  the  utmost  rights  of 
legislature.  You  cannot  assert  that  you  took  on  yourselves  the 
task  of  imposing  colony  taxes,  from  the  want  of  another  legal 
body  that  is  competent  to  the  purpose  of  supplying  the  exigencies 
of  the  state  without  wounding  the  prejudices  of  the  people. 
Neither  is  it  true  that  the  body  so  quahfied,  and  having  that 
competence,  had  neglected  the  duty. 

The  question  now,  on  all  this  accumulated  matter,  is :  Whether 
you  will  choose  to  abide  by  a  profitable  experience,  or  a  mis- 
chievous theory;  whether  you  choose  to  build  on  imagination,  or 
fact ;  whether  you  prefer  enjoyment,  or  hope ;  satisfaction  in  your 
subjects,  or  discontent  ? 

If  these  propositions  are  accepted,  everything  which  has  been 
made  to  enforce  a  contrary  system  must,  I  take  it  for  granted, 
fall  along  with  it.  On  that  ground,  I  have  drawn  the  following 
resolution,  which,  when  it  comes  to  be  moved,  will  naturally  be 
divided  in  a  proper  manner :  "  That  it  may  be  proper  to  repeal  an 
act,  made  in  the  seventh  year  of  the  reign  of  his  present  Majesty, 
intituled :  1  An  act  for  granting  certain  duties  in  the  British 
colonies  and  plantations  in  America  ;  for  allowing  a  drawback 2  of 
1  Another  spelling  of  "entitled."  2  Refund  of  a  duty. 


70  EDMUND  BURKE   ON  CONCILIATION 

the  duties  of  customs  upon  the  exportation  from  this  kingdom,  of 
coffee  and  cocoanuts  of  the  produce  of  the  said  colonies  or  plan- 
tations; for  discontinuing  the  drawbacks  payable  on  China  earthen- 
ware exported  to  America;  and  for  more  effectually  preventing 
the  clandestine  running  of  goods  in  the  said  colonies  and  plan- 
tations. —  And  that  it  may  be  proper  to  repeal  an  act,  made  in 
the  fourteenth  year  of  the  reign  of  his  present  Majesty,  intituled : 
An  act  to  discontinue,  in  such  manner,  and  for  such  time,  as  are 
therein  mentioned,  the  landing  and  discharging,  lading  or  shipping, 
of  goods,  wares,  and  merchandise,  at  the  town,  and  within  the 
harbor,  of  Boston,  in  the  province  of  Massachusetts  Bay,  in  North 
America.  —  And  that  it  may  be  proper  to  repeal  an  act,  made  in 
the  fourteenth  year  of  the  reign  of  his  present  Majesty,  intituled: 
An  act  for  the  impartial  administration  of  justice,  in  the  cases  of 
persons  questioned  for  any  acts  done  by  them,  in  the  execution  of 
the  law,  or  for  the  suppression  of  riots  and  tumults,  in  the  prov- 
ince of  Massachusetts  Bay,  in  New  England.  —  And  that  it  may  be 
proper  to  repeal  an  act,  made  in  the  fourteenth  year  of  the  reign  of 
his  present  Majesty,  intituled :  An  act  for  the  better  regulating  the 
government  of  the  province  of  Massachusetts  Bay,  in  New  Eng- 
land.—  And,  also,  that  it  may  be  proper  to  explain  and  amend  an 
act,  made  in  the  thirty-fifth  year  of  the  reign  of  King  Henry 
VIII.,  intituled:  An  act  for  the  trial  of  treasons  committed  out 
of  the  king's  dominions." 

I  wish,  Sir,  to  repeal  the  Boston  Port  Bill,i  because  (indepen- 
dently of  the  dangerous  precedent  of  suspending  the  rights  of  the 
subject  during  the  king's  pleasure)  it  was  passed,  as  I  apprehend, 
with  less  regularity,  and  on  more  partial  principles,  than  it  ought,, 
The  corporation  of  Boston  was  not  heard  before  it  was  condemned. 
Other  towns,  full  as  guilty  as  she  was,  have  not  had  their  ports 
blocked  up.  Even  the  restraining  bill  of  the  present  session  does 
not  go  to  the  length  of  the  Boston  Port  Act.  The  same  ideas  of 
prudence  which  induced  you  not  to  extend  equal  punishment  to 

1  A  bill  proposed  by  Lord  North  in  1 774,  prohibiting  the  landing  or  ship- 
ping of  goods  at  Boston,  as  a  punishment  for  the  rebellion  of  the  people  of 
Boston  against  the  tax  on  tea. 


WITH  THE  AMERICAN  COLONIES,  71 

equal  guilt,  even  when  you  were  punishing,  induced  me,  who 
mean  not  to  chastise,  but  to  reconcile,  to  be  satisfied  with  the 
punishment  already  partially  inflicted. 

Ideas  of  prudence  and  accommodation  to  circumstances  pre- 
vent you  from  taking  away  the  charters  of  Connecticut  and  Rhode 
Island,  as  you  have  taken  away  that  of  Massachusetts  colony, 
though  the  Crown  has  far  less  power  in  the  two  former  prov- 
inces than  it  enjoyed  in  the  latter;  and  though  the  abuses  have 
been  full  as  great  and  as  flagrant  in  the  exempted  as  in  the  pun- 
ished. The  same  reasons  of  prudence  and  accommodation  have 
weight  with  me  in  restoring  the  charter  of  Massachusetts  Bay.  Be- 
sides, Sir,  the  act  which  changes  the  charter  of  Massachusetts  is 
in  many  particulars  so  exceptionable,  that  if  I  did  not  wish  abso- 
lutely to  repeal,  I  would  by  all  means  desire  to  alter  it;  as  several 
of  its  provisions  tend  to  the  subversion  of  all  public  and  private 
justice.  Such,  among  others,  is  the  power  in  the  governor  to 
change  the  sheriff  at  his  pleasure,  and  to  make  a  new  returning 
officer  for  every  special  cause.  It  is  shameful  to  behold  such  a 
regulation  standing  among  English  laws. 

The  act  for  bringing  persons  accused  of  committing  murder  un- 
der the  orders  of  government  to  England  for  trial  is  but  tem- 
porary. That  act  has  calculated  the  probable  duration  of  our 
quarrel  with  the  colonies,  and  is  accommodated  to  that  supposed 
duration.  I  would  hasten  the  happy  moment  of  reconciliation, 
and  therefore  must,  on  my  principle,  get  rid  of  that  most  justly 
obnoxious  act. 

The  act  of  Henry  VIII.,  for  the  trial  of  treasons,  I  do  not  mean 
to  take  away,  but  to  confine  it  to  its  proper  bounds  and  original 
intention;  to  make  it  expressly  for  trial  of  treasons  (and  the 
greatest  treasons  may  be  committed)  in  places  where  the  jurisdic- 
tion of  the  Crown  does  not  extend. 

Having  guarded  the  privileges  of  local  legislature,  I  would  next 
secure  to  the  colonies  a  fair  and  unbiased  judicature ;  for  which 
purpose.  Sir,  I  propose  the  following  resolution :  "  That,  from 
the  time  when  the  general  assembly  or  general  court  of  any  colony 
or  plantation  in  North  America  shall  have  appointed  by  act  of 


72  EDMUND  BURKE   ON  CONCILIATION 

assembly,  duly  confirmed,  a  settled  salary  to  the  offices  of  the 
chief  justice  and  other  judges  of  the  superior  courts,  it  may  be 
proper  that  the  said  chief  justice  and  other  judges  of  the  superior 
courts  of  such  colony  shall  hold  his  and  their  office  and  offices 
during  their  good  behavior;  and  shall  not  be  removed  therefrom, 
but  when  the  said  removal  shall  be  adjudged  by  his  Majesty  in 
council,  upon  a  hearing  on  complaint  from  the  general  assembly, 
or  on  a  complaint  from  the  governor,  or  council,  or  the  house  of 
representatives,  severally,  or  of  the  colony  in  which  the  said  chief 
justice  and  other  judges  have  exercised  the  said  offices." 

The  next  resolution  relates  to  the  courts  of  admiralty.  It  is 
this :  "  That  it  may  be  proper  to  regulate  the  courts  of  admiralty, 
or  vice-admiralty,  authorized  by  the  fifteenth  chapter  of  the  fourth 
of  George  III.,  in  such  a  manner  as  to  make  the  same  more 
commodious  to  those  who  sue,  or  are  sued,  in  the  said  courts,  and  to 
provide  for  the  more  decent  maintenanceof  the  judges  in  the  same." 

These  courts  I  do  not  wish  to  take  away ;  they  are  in  themselves 
proper  establishments.  This  court  is  one  of  the  capital  securities 
of  the  Act  of  Navigation,  i  The  extent  of  its  jurisdiction,  indeed, 
has  been  increased ;  but  this  is  altogether  as  proper,  and  is  indeed 
on  many  accounts  more  eligible,  where  new  powers  were  wanted, 
than  a  court  absolutely  new.  But  courts  incommodiously  situated 
in  effect  deny  justice,  and  a  court  partaking  in  the  fruits  of  its  own 
condemnation  is  a  robber.  The  congress  complain,  and  complain 
justly,  of  this  grievance. 

These  are  the  three  consequential  propositions.  I  have  thought 
of  two  or  three  more ;  but  they  come  rather  too  near  detail  and 
to  the  province  of  executive  government,  which  I  wish  Parliament 
always  to  superintend,  never  to  assume.  If  the  first  six  are 
granted^  congruity  will  carry  the  latter  three.  If  not,  the  things 
that  remain  unrepealed  will  be,  I  hope,  rather  unseemly  encum- 
brances on  the  building  than  very  materially  detrimental  to  its 
strength  und  stability. 

1  This  act  prevented  foreign  ships  from  trading  with  English  colonies,  and 
only  permitted  trade  with  England  in  English  ships  or  ships  of  the  country 
supplying  the  merchandise  carried. 


WITH  THE  AMERICAN  COLONIES,  73 

Here,  Sir,  I  should  close;  but  I  plainly  perceive  some  objec- 
tions remain,  which  I  ought,  if  possible,  to  remove.  The  first 
will  be  that,  in  resorting  to  the  doctrine  of  our  ancestors,  as  con- 
tained in  the  preamble  to  the  Chester  act,  I  prove  too  much :  that 
the  grievance  from  a  want  of  representation,  stated  in  that  pre- 
amble, goes  to  the  whole  of  legislation  as  well  as  to  taxation ; 
and  that  the  colonies,  grounding  themselves  upon  that  doctrine, 
will  apply  it  to  all  parts  of  legislative  authority. 

To  this  ob'* action,  with  all  possible  deference  and  humility,  and 
wishing  as  little  as  any  man  living  to  impair  the  smallest  particle 
of  our  supreme  authority,  I  answer,  that  the  words  are  the  words 
of  Parliament,  and  not  mine  ;  and  that  all  false  and  inconclusive 
inferences  drawn  from  them  are  not  mine ;  for  I  heartily  disclaim 
any  such  inference.  I  have  chosen  the  words  of  an  act  of  Parlia- 
ment which  Mr.  Grenville,  surely  a  tolerably  zealous  and  very 
judicious  advocate  for  the  sovereignty  of  Parliament,  formerly 
moved  to  have  read  at  your  table  in  confirmation  of  his  tenets. 
It  is  true  that  Lord  Chatham  i  considered  these  preambles  as  de- 
claring strongly  in  favor  of  his  opinions.  He  was  a  no  less  pow- 
erful advocate  for  the  privileges  of  the  Americans.  Ought  I  not 
from  hence  to  presume,  that  these  preambles  are  as  favorable  as 
possible  to  both  when  properly  understood ;  favorable  both  to  the 
rights  of  Parliament  and  to  the  privilege  of  the  dependencies  of 
this  Crown  ?  But,  Sir,  the  object  of  grievance  in  my  resolution 
I  have  not  taken  from  the  Chester,  but  from  the  Durham  act, 
which  confines  the  hardship  of  want  of  representation  to  the  case 
of  subsidies ;  and  which  therefore  falls  in  exactly  with  the  case  of 
the  colonies.  But  whether  the  unrepresented  counties  were  de 
fure,  2  Qj.  ^^  facto,  ^  bound,  the  preambles  do  not  accurately  dis- 

1  William  Pitt  (i  708-1 778),  perhaps  the  greatest  of  English  statesmen.  He 
was  distinguished  by  great  insight  and  breadth  of  view  in  political  matters, 
and,  previous  to  becoming  Earl  of  Chatham,  was  almost  worshiped  by  the 
English  people,  who  called  him  the  "Great  Commoner."  By  accepting  a 
peerage  he  sacrificed  his  popularity  to  a  great  extent.  He  was  an  advocate 
of  greater  freedom  for  the  colonies,  and  vigorously  opposed  the  Stamp  Act. 

2  Literally,  "  from  the  law  "  ;  hence,  rightly. 
'^  Literally,  "  from  the  fact " ;  hence,  really. 


74  EDMUND  BURKE   ON  CONCILIATION 

tinguish,  nor  indeed  was  it  necessary ;  for,  whether  de  jure  or  de 
facto,  the  legislature  thought  the  exercise  of  the  power  of  taxing, 
as  of  right,  or  as  of  fact  without  right,  equally  a  grievance  and 
equally  oppressive. 

I  do  not  know  that  the  colonies  have,  in  any  general  way,  or 
in  any  cool  hour,  gone  much  beyond  the  demand  of  immunity  in 
relation  to  taxes.  It  is  not  fair  to  judge  of  the  temper  or  disposi- 
tions of  any  man,  or  any  set  of  men,  when  they  are  composed  and 
at  rest,  from  their  conduct,  or  their  expressions,  in  a  state  of  dis- 
turbance and  irritation.  It  is,  besides,  a  very  great  mistake  to 
imagine  that  mankind  follow  up  practically  any  speculative  prin- 
ciple, either  of  government  or  of  freedom,  as  far  as  it  will  go  in 
argument  and  logical  illation. 

We  Englishmen  stop  very  short  of  the  principles  upon  which 
we  support  any  given  part  of  our  constitution,  or  even  the  whole 
of  it  together.  I  could  easily,  if  I  had  not  already  tired  you,  give 
you  very  striking  and  convincing  instances  of  it.  This  is  nothing 
but  what  is  natural  and  proper.  All  government,  indeed  every 
human  benefit  and  enjoyment,  every  virtue,  and  every  prudent 
act,  is  founded  on  compromise  and  barter.  We  balance  incon- 
veniences ;  we  give  and  take ;  we  remit  some  rights  that  we  may 
enjoy  others;  and  we  choose  rather  to  be  happy  citizens  than 
subtle  disputants.  As  we  must  give  away  some  natural  liberty 
to  enjoy  civil  advantages,  so  we  must  sacrifice  some  civil  liber- 
ties for  the  advantages  to  be  derived  from  the  communion  and 
fellowship  of  a  great  empire.  But,  in  all  fair  dealings,  the  thing 
bought  must  bear  some  proportion  to  the  purchase  paid.  None 
will  barter  away  the  immediate  jewel  of  his  soul.i  Though  a 
great  house  is  apt  to  make  slaves  haughty,  yet  it  is  purchasing  a 
part  of  the  artificial  importance  of  a  great  empire  too  dear  to 
pay  for  it  all  essential  rights,  and  all  the  intrinsic  dignity  of 
human  nature.  None  of  us  who  would  not  risk  his  life  rather 
than  fall  under  a  government  purely  arbitrary!  But  although 
there  are  some  amongst  us  who  think  our  constitution  wants 
many  improvements  to  make  it  a  complete  system  of  liberty, 

1  See  Shakespeare,  Othello,  act  iii.,  sc.  3. 


WITH  THE  AMERICAN  COLONIES,  75 

perhaps  none  who  are  of  that  opinion  would  think  it  right  to 
aim  at  such  improvement  by  disturbing  his  country  and  risking 
everything  that  is  dear  to  him.  In  every  arduous  enterprise  we 
consider  what  we  are  to  lose  as  well  as  what  we  are  to  gain ;  and 
the  more  and  better  stake  of  liberty  every  people  possess,  the  less 
they  will  hazard  in  a  vain  attempt  to  make  it  more.  These  are 
the  cords  of  man,  i  Man  acts  from  adequate  motives  relative  to 
his  interest,  and  not  on  metaphysical  speculations.  Aristotle,^ 
the  great  master  of  reasoning,  cautions  us,  and  with  great  weight 
and  propriety,  against  this  species  of  delusive  geometrical  accu- 
racy in  moral  arguments  as  the  most  fallacious  of  all  sophistry. 

The  Americans  will  have  no  interest  contrary  to  the  grandeur 
and  glory  of  England,  when  they  are  not  oppressed  by  the  weight 
of  it ;  and  they  will  rather  be  inclined  to  respect  the  acts  of  a  su- 
perintending legislature,  when  they  see  them  the  acts  of  that 
power,  which  is  itself  the  security,  not  the  rival,  of  their  secondary 
importance.  In  this  assurance  my  mind  most  perfectly  acquiesces, 
and  I  confess  I  feel  not  the  least  alarm  from  the  discontents  which 
are  to  arise  from  putting  people  at  their  ease;  nor  do  I  apprehend 
the  destruction  of  this  empire  from  giving,  by  an  act  of  free  grace 
and  indulgence,  to  two  milUons  of  my  fellow  citizens,  some  share 
of  those  rights  upon  which  I  have  always  been  taught  to  value 
myself. 

It  is  said,  indeed,  that  this  power  of  granting,  vested  in  Ameri- 
can assemblies,  would  dissolve  the  unity  of  the  empire;  which 
was  preserved  entire,  although  Wales  and  Chester  and  Durham 
were  added  to  it.  Truly,  Mr.  Speaker,  I  do  not  know  what  this 
unity  means;  nor  has  it  ever  been  heard  of,  that  I  know,  in  the 
constitutional  policy  of  this  country.  The  very  idea  of  subordina- 
tion of  parts  excludes  this  notion  of  simple  and  undivided  unity. 
England  is  the  head  j  but  she  is  not  the  head  and  the  members 
too.  Ireland  has  ever  had  from  the  beginning  a  separate,  but  not 
an  independent,  legislature ;  which,  far  from  distracting,  promoted 

1  "  The  cords  of  man,"  i.e.,  the  motives  which  govern  men.  See  Hosea  xi.  4: 
**■  I  drew  them  with  cords  of  a  man,  with  bands  of  love." 

2  A  great  Greek  philosopher  of  the  fourth  century  B.  c. 


y6  EDMUND  BURKE  ON  CONCILIATION 

the  union  of  the  whole.  Everything  was  sweetly  and  harmoniously 
disposed  through  both  islands  for  the  conservation  of  Enghsh  do- 
minion and  the  communication  of  English  liberties.  I  do  not 
see  that  the  same  principles  might  not  be  carried  into  twenty  isl- 
ands, and  with  the  same  good  effect.  This  is  my  model  with  re- 
gard to  America,  as  far  as  the  internal  circumstances  of  the  two 
countries  are  the  same.  I  know  no  other  unity  of  this  empire 
than  I  can  draw  from  its  example  during  these  periods,  when  it 
seemed  to  my  poor  understanding  more  united  than  it  is  now,  or 
than  it  is  hkely  to  be  by  the  present  methods. 

But  since  I  speak  of  these  methods,  I  recollect,  Mr.  Speaker, 
almost  too  late,  that  I  promised  before  I  finished  to  say  something 
of  the  proposition  of  the  noble  lord  i  on  the  floor,  which  has  been 
so  lately  received,  and  stands  on  your  journals.  I  must  be  deeply 
concerned  whenever  it.  is  my  misfortune  to  continue  a  difference 
with  the  majority  of  this  House.  But  as  the  reasons  for  that  dif- 
ference are  my  apology  for  thus  troubhng  you,  suffer  me  to  state 
them  in  a  very  few  words.  I  shall  compress  them  into  as  small  a 
body  as  I  possibly  can,  having  already  debated  that  matter  at 
large  when  the  question  was  before  the  committee. 

First,  then,  I  cannot  admit  that  proposition  of  a  ransom  by 
auction,  because  it  is  a  mere  project.  It  is  a  thing  new,  unheard 
of,  supported  by  no  experience,  justified  by  no  analogy,  without 
example  of  our  ancestors  or  root  in  the  constitution.  It  is  neither 
regular  parliamentary  taxation,  nor  colony  grant.  Experimentum 
in  corpore  viW^  is  a  good  rule,  which  will  ever  make  me  adverse 
to  any  trial  of  experiments  on  what  is  certainly  the  most  valuable 
of  all  subjects  —  the  peace  of  this  empire. 

Secondly,  it  is  an  experiment  which  must  be  fatal  in  the  end  to 
our  constitution.  For  what  is  it  but  a  scheme  for  taxing  the  col- 
onies in  the  antechamber  of  the  noble  lord  and  his  successors  ? 
To  settle  the  quotas  and  proportions  in  this  House  is  clearly  im- 
possible. You,  Sir,  may  flatter  yourself  you  shall  sit  a  state  auc- 
tioneer, with  your  hammer  in  your  hand,  and  knock  down  to  each 

1  The  allusion  is  to  Lord  North. 

2  "  Experiment  should  be  made  upon  a  worthless  subject." 


WITH  THE  AMERICAN  COLONIES.  77 

colony  as  it  bids.  But  to  settle  (on  the  plan  laid  down  by  the  no- 
ble lord)  the  true  proportional  payment  for  four  or  five  and  twenty 
governments,  according  to  the  absolute  and  the  relative  wealth 
of  each,  and  according  to  the  British  proportion  of  wealth  and 
burthen,  is  a  wild  and  chimerical  notion.  This  new  taxation  must, 
therefore,  come  in  by  the  back  door  of  the  constitution.  Each 
quota  must  be  brought  to  this  House  ready  formed ;  you  can  nei- 
ther add  nor  alter.  You  must  register  it.  You  can  do  nothing 
further.  For  on  what  grounds  can  you  deliberate  either  before  or 
after  the  proposition  ?  You  cannot  hear  the  counsel  for  all  these 
provinces,  quarreling  each  on  its  own  quantity  of  payment,  and  its 
proportion  to  others.  If  you  should  attempt  it,  the  committee  of 
provincial  ways  and  means,  or  by  whatever  other  name  it  will  de- 
light to  be  called,  must  swallow  up  all  the  time  of  Parliament. 

Thirdly,  it  does  not  give  satisfaction  t^  the  complaint  of  the 
colonies.  They  complain  that  they  are  taxed  without  their  con- 
sent ;  you  answer  that  you  will  fix  the  sum  at  which  they  shall  be 
taxed.  That  is,  you  give  them  the  very  grievance  for  the  remedy. 
You  tell  them,  indeed,  that  you  will  leave  the  mode  to  themselves. 
I  really  beg  pardon :  it  gives  me  pain  to  mention  it ;  but  you 
must  be  sensible  that  you  will  not  perform  this  part  of  the  com- 
pact. For,  suppose  the  colonies  were  to  lay  the  duties,  which 
furnished  their  contingent,  upon  the  importation  of  your  manufac- 
tures; you  know  you  would  never  suffer  such  a  tax  to  be  laid. 
You  know,  too,  that  you  would  not  suffer  many  other  modes  of 
taxation.  So  that  when  you  come  to  explain  yourself,  it  will  be 
found  that  you  will  neither  leave  to  themselves  the  quantum  nor 
the  mode,  nor  indeed  anything.  The  whole  is  delusion  from  one 
end  to  the  other. 

Fourthly,  this  method  of  ransom  by  auction,  unless  it  be  uni- 
versally accepted,  will  plunge  you  into  great  and  inextricable 
difficulties.  In  what  year  of  our  Lord  are  the  proportions  of 
payments  to  be  settled  ?  To  say  nothing  of  the  impossibility 
that  colony  agents  should  have  general  powers  of  taxing  the  colo- 
nies at  their  discretion,  consider,  I  implore  you,  that  the  commu- 
nication by  special  messages  and  orders  between  these  agents 


yS  EDMUND  BURKE   ON  CONCILIATION 

and  their  constituents  on  each  variation  of  the  case,  when  the 
parties  come  to  contend  together  and  to  dispute  on  their  relative 
proportions,  will  be  a  matter  of  delay,  perplexity,  and  confusion 
that  never  can  have  an  end. 

•^  If  all  the  colonies  do  not  appear  at  the  outcry,  what  is  the  con- 
dition of  those  assemblies  who  offer  by  themselves  or  their  agents 
to  tax  themselves  up  to  your  ideas  of  their  proportion  ?  The  re- 
fractory colonies,  who  refuse  all  composition,  will  remain  taxed 
only  to  your  old  impositions,  which,  however  grievous  in  prin- 
ciple, are  trifling  as  to  production.  The  obedient  colonies  in  this 
scheme  are  heavily  taxed;  the  refractory  remain  unburthened. 
What  will  you  do  ?  Will  you  lay  new  and  heavier  taxes  by  Par- 
liament on  the  disobedient  ?  Pray  consider  in  what  way  you  can 
do  it.  You  are  perfectly  convinced  that,  in  the  way  of  taxing, 
you  can  do  nothing  b^t  at  the  ports.  Now  suppose  it  is  Virginia 
that  refuses  to  appear  at  your  auction,  while  Maryland  and  North 
Carolina  bid  handsomely  for  their  ransom  and  are  taxed  to  your 
quota,  how  will  you  put  these  colonies  on  a  par  ?  Will  you  tax 
the  tobacco  of  Virginia  ?  If  you  do,  you  give  its  death  wound  to 
your  English  revenue  at  home,  and  to  one  of  the  very  greatest 
articles  of  your  own  foreign  trade.  If  you  tax  the  import  of  that 
rebellious  colony,  what  do  you  tax  but  your  own  manufactures,  or 
the  goods  of  some  other  obedient  and  already  well-taxed  colony  ? 
Who  has  said  one  word  on  this  labyrinthi  of  detail  which  be- 
wilders you  more  and  more  as  you  enter  into  it  ?  Who  has  pre- 
sented, who  can  present,  you  with  a  clue  to  lead  you  out  of  it  ? 
I  think,  Sir,  it  is  impossible  that  you  should  not  recollect  that  the 
colony  bounds  are  so  implicated  in  one  another  (you  know  it  by 
your  other  experiments  in  the  bill  for  prohibiting  the  New  Eng- 
land fishery),  that  you  can  lay  no  possible  restraints  on  almost 
any  of  them  which  may  not  be  presently  eluded,  if  you  do  not 
confound  the  innocent  with  the  guilty,  and  burthen  those  whom, 

1  The  allusion  here  is  to  the  labyrinth  at  Crete  in  which  the  monster 
Minotaur  was  kept.  When  Theseus  entered  this  labyrinth  to  slay  the  Mino- 
taur, Ariadne,  the  daughter  of  King  Minos,  gave  him  as  a  clew  a  skein  of 
thread,  by  means  of  which  he  found  his  way  out. 


WITH   THE  AMERICAN  COLONIES,  79 

'upon  every  principle,  you  ought  to  exonerate.  He  must  be 
grossly  ignorant  of  America  who  thinks  that,  without  falling  into 
this  confusion  of  all  rules  of  equity  and  policy,  you  can  restrain 
any  single  colony,  especially  Virginia  and  Maryland,  the  central 
and  most  important  of  them  all. 

Let  it  also  be  considered  that,  either  in  the  present  confusion 
you  settle  a  permanent  contingent  which  will  and  must  be  trifling, 
and  then  you  have  no  effectual  revenue ;  or  you  change  the 
quota  at  every  exigency,  and  then  on  every  new  repartition  you 
will  have  a  new  quarrel. 

Reflect,  besides,  that  when  you  have  fixed  a  quota  for  every 
colony,  you  have  not  provided  for  prompt  and  punctual  payment. 
Suppose  one,  two,  five,  ten  years'  arrears.  You  cannot  issue  a 
treasury  extent  ^  against  the  failing  colony.  You  must  make  new 
Boston  Port  Bills,  new  restraining  laws,  new  acts  for  dragging 
men  to  England  for  trial.  You  must  send  out  new  fleets,  new 
armies.  All  is  to  begin  again !  From  this  day  forward  the  empire 
is  never  to  know  an  hour's  tranquillity.  An  intestine  fire  will  be 
kept  alive  in  the  bowels  of  the  colonies,  which  one  time  or  other 
must  consume  this  whole  empire.  I  allow,  indeed,  that  the  empire 
of  Germany  raises  her  revenue  and  her  troops  by  quotas  and  con- 
tingents ;  but  the  revenue  of  the  empire  and  the  army  of  the 
empire  is  the  worst  revenue  and  the  worst  army  in  the  world. 

Instead  of  a  standing  revenue,  you  will,  therefore,  have  a  per- 
petual quarrel.  Indeed  the  noble  lord,  who  proposed  this  pro- 
ject of  a  ransom  by  auction,  seemed  himself  to  be  of  that  opinion. 
His  project  was  rather  designed  for  breaking  the  union  of  the 
colonies  than  for  establishing  a  revenue.  He  confessed  he  appre- 
hended that  his  proposal  would  not  be  to  their  taste,  I  say,  this 
scheme  of  disunion  seems  to  be  at  the  bottom  of  the  project ;  for 
I  will  not  suspect  that  the  noble  lord  meant  nothing  but  merely 
to  delude  the  nation  by  an  airy  phantom  which  he  never  intended 
to  realize.  But  whatever  his  views  may  be,  as  I  propose  the 
peace  and  union  of  the  colonies  as  the  very  foundation  of  my 

1  "Treasury  extent,"  i.e.,  an  order  by  which  the  lands  and  goods  of  a 
debtor  to  the  Crown  are  seized  for  payment. 


8o  EDMUND  BURKE   ON  CONCILIATION 

plan,  it  cannot  accord  with  one  whose  foundation  is  perpetual 
discord. 

Compare  the  two.  This  I  offer  to  give  you  is  plain  and  sim- 
ple; the  other,  full  of  perplexed  and  intricate  mazes.  This  is 
mild;  that  harsh.  This  is  found  by  experience  effectual  for  its 
purposes ;  the  other  is  a  new  project.  This  is  universal ;  the  other 
calculated  for  certain  colonies  only.  This  is  immediate  in  its 
conciliatory  operation;  the  other  remote,  contingent,  full  of  haz- 
ard. Mine  is  what  becomes  the  dignity  of  a  ruling  people — gra- 
tuitous, unconditional,  and  not  held  out  as  matter  of  bargain  and 
sale.  I  have  done  my  duty  in  proposing  it  to  you.  I  have,  in- 
deed, tired  you  by  a  long  discourse ;  but  this  is  the  misfortune  of 
those  to  whose  influence  nothing  will  be  conceded,  and  who  must 
win  every  inch  of  their  ground  by  argument.  You  have  heard 
me  with  goodness.  May  you  decide  with  wisdom!  For  my 
part,  I  feel  my  mind  greatly  disburthened  by  what  I  have  done  to- 
day. I  have  been  the  less  fearful  of  trying  your  patience,  be- 
cause on  this  subject  I  mean  to  spare  it  altogether  in  future.  I 
have  this  comfort,  that^  in  every  stage  of  the  American  affairs,  I 
have  steadily  opposed  the  measures  that  have  produced  the  con- 
fusion, and  may  bring  on  the  destruction  of  this  empire.  I  now 
go  so  far  as  to  risk  a  proposal  of  my  own.  If  I  cannot  give 
peace  to  my  country,  I  give  it  to  my  conscience. 

But  what  (says  the  financier)  is  peace  to  us  without  money  ? 
Your  plan  gives  us  no  revenue.  No!  But  it  does;  for  it  se- 
cures to  the  subject  the  power  oi refusal — the  first  of  all  revenues. 
Experience  is  a  cheat,  and  fact  a  liar,  if  this  power  in  the  subject 
of  proportioning  his  grant,  or  of  not  granting  at  all,  has  not 
been  found  the  richest  mine  of  revenue  ever  discovered  by  the 
skill  or  by  the  fortune  of  man.  It  does  not  indeed  vote  you 
^^152, 750:  II  :  2^,  nor  any  other  paltry  limited  sum.  But  it 
gives  the  strong  box  itself,  the  fund,  the  bank,  from  whence  only 
revenues  can  arise  amongst  a  people  sensible  of  freedom :  Posita 
luditur  arcay 

1  "The  strong  box  itself  is  staked  in  playing."  See  Juvenal,  Sat.  i. 
An  allusion  to  excess  in  gambling. 


WITH  THE  AMERICAN  COLONIES.  8 1 

Cannot  you  in  England  ;  cannot  you  at  this  time  of  day;  can- 
not you,  a  House  of  Commons,  trust  to  the  principle  which  has 
raised  so  mighty  a  revenue,  and  accumulated  a  debt  of  near 
140  millions  in  this  country  ?  Is  this  principle  to  be  true  in  Eng- 
land, and  false  everywhere  else  ?  Is  it  not  true  in  Ireland  ?  Has 
it  not  hitherto  been  true  in  the  colonies  ?  Why  should  you  pre- 
sume that,  in  any  country,  a  body  duly  constituted  for  any  func- 
tion, will  neglect  to  perform  its  duty,  and  abdicate  its  trust  ?  Such 
a  presumption  would  go  against  all  governments  in  all  modes. 
But,  in  truth,  this  dread  of  penury  of  supply,  from  a  free  assembly, 
has  no  foundation  in  nature.  For  first  observe  that,  besides  the 
desire  which  all  men  have,  naturally,  of  supporting  the  honor  of 
their  own  government,  that  sense  of  dignity  and  that  security  to 
property,  which  ever  attend  freedom,  have  a  tendency  to  increase 
the  stock  of  the  free  community.  Most  may  be  taken  where  most 
is  accumulated.  And  what  is  the  soil  or  climate  where  experience 
has  not  uniformly  proved,  that  the  voluntary  flow  of  heaped-up 
plenty,  bursting  from  the  weight  of  its  own  rich  luxuriance,  has 
ever  run  with  a  more  copious  stream  of  revenue  than  could  be 
squeezed  from  the  dry  husks  of  oppressed  indigence,  by  the  strain- 
ing of  all  the  politic  machinery  in  the  world  ? 

Next,  we  know  that  parties  must  ever  exist  in  a  free  country. 
We  know,  too,  that  the  emulations  of  such  parties,  their  contra- 
dictions, their  reciprocal  necessities,  their  hopes,  and  their  fears, 
must  send  them  all  in  their  turns  to  him  that  holds  the  balance  of 
the  state.  The  parties  are  the  gamesters ;  but  government  keeps 
the  table,  and  is  sure  to  be  the  winner  in  the  end.  When  this 
game  is  played,  I  really  think  it  is  more  to  be  feared  that  the 
people  will  be  exhausted  than  that  government  will  not  be 
supplied.  Whereas,  whatever  is  got  by  acts  of  absolute  power  ill- 
obeyed  because  odious,  or  by  contracts  ill-kept  because  con- 
strained, will  be  narrow,  feeble,  uncertain,  and  precarious. 

Ease  would  recant 
Vows  made  in  pain,  as  violent  and  void. 7 

1  See  Milton,  Paradise  Lost,  Book  iv. ,  lines  96,  97. 


82  EDMUND  BURKE   ON  CONCILIATION 

I,  for  one,  protest  against  compounding  our  demands;  I  declare 
against  compounding,  for  a  poor,  limited  sum,  the  immense,  ever- 
growing, eternal  debt  which  is  due  to  generous  government  from 
protected  freedom.  And  so  may  I  speed  in  the  great  object  I 
propose  to  you;  as  I  think  it  would  not  only  be  an  act  of  injustice, 
but  would  be  the  worst  economy  in  the  world,  to  compel  the  colo- 
nies to  a  sum  certain,  either  in  the  way  of  ransom  or  in  the  way 
of  compulsory  compact. 

But  to  clear  up  my  ideas  on  this  subject.  A  revenue  from 
America  transmitted  hither!  Do  not  delude  yourselves;  you 
never  can  receive  it.  No,  not  a  shilling !  We  have  experience 
that  from  remote  countries  it  is  not  to  be  expected.  If,  when  you 
attempted  to  extract  revenue  from  Bengal,  you  were  obliged  to 
return  in  loan  what  you  had  taken  in  imposition,  what  can  you 
expect  from  North  America  ?  For  certainly,  if  ever  there  was  a 
country  qualified  to  produce  wealth,  it  is  India ;  or  an  institution 
fit  for  the  transmission,  it  is  the  East  India  Company.  America 
has  none  of  these  aptitudes. 

If  America  gives  you  taxable  objects,  on  which  you  lay  your 
duties  here,  and  gives  you,  at  the  same  time,  a  surplus  by  a 
foreign  sale  of  her  commodities,  to  pay  the  duties  on  these  objects 
which  you  tax  at  home,i  she  has  performed  her  part  to  the  Brit- 
ish revenue.  But  with  regard  to  her  own  internal  establishments, 
she  may,  I  doubt  not  she  will,  contribute  in  moderation.  I  say 
in  moderation;  for  she  ought  not  to  be  permitted  to  exhaust  her- 
self. She  ought  to  be  reserved  to  a  war ;  the  weight  of  which, 
with  the  enemies  that  we  are  most  Hkely  to  have,  must  be  con- 
siderable in  her  quarter  of  the  globe.  There  she  may  serve  you, 
and  serve  you  essentially. 

For  that  service,  for  all  service,  whether  of  revenue,  trade,  or 
empire,  my  trust  is  in  her  interest  in  the  British  constitution.  My 
hold  of  the  colonies  is  in  the  close  afiection  which  grows  from 

1  According  to  the  Navigation  Laws,  American  products  could  not  be  ex- 
ported to  foreign  countries  direct,  but  had  first  to  be  sent  to  England,  thence 
to  be  reexported.  Duties  were  laid  upon  them  in  England,  which  were  more 
than  covered  by  the  profits  of  foreign  sale. 


WITH   THE  AMERICAN  COLONIES,  ^^ 

common  names,  from  kindred  blood,  from  similar  privileges,  and 
equal  protection.  These  are  ties,  which,  though  light  as  air,  are  as 
strong  as  links  of  iron.  Let  the  colonies  always  keep  the  id,ea 
of  their  civil  rights  associated  with  your  government;  they  will 
cling  and  grapple  to  you,  and  no  force  under  heaven  will  be  of 
power  to  tear  them  from  their  allegiance.  But  let  it  be  once 
understood  that  your  government  may  be  one  thing  and  their 
privileges  another,  that  these  two  things  may  exist  without  any 
mutual  relation;  the  cement  is  gone,  the  cohesion  is  loosened, 
and  everything  hastens  to  decay  and  dissolution. 

As  long  as  you  have  the  wisdom  to  keep  the  sovereign  authority 
of  this  country  as  the  sanctuary  of  liberty,  the  sacred  temple  con- 
secrated to  our  common  faith,  wherever  the  chosen  race  and  sons  of 
England  worship  freedom  they  will  turn  their  faces  towards  you. 
The  more  they  multiply,  the  more  friends  you  will  have;  the  more 
ardently  they  love  liberty,  the  more  perfect  will  be  their  obedience. 
Slavery  they  can  have  anywhere.  It  is  a  weed  that  grows  in  every 
soil.  They  may  have  it  from  Spain,  they  may  have  it  from  Prus- 
sia. But,  until  you  become  lost  to  all  feeling  of  your  true  interest 
and  your  natural  dignity,  freedom  they  can  have  from  none  but 
you.  This  is  the  commodity  of  price,  of  which  you  have  the  mo- 
nopoly. This  is  the  true  act  of  navigation,  which  binds  to  you  the 
commerce  of  the  colonies,  and  through  them  secures  to  you  the 
wealth  of  the  world.  Deny  them  this  participation  of  freedom, 
and  you  break  that  sole  bond,  which  originally  made,  and  must 
still  preserve,  the  unity  of  the  empire. 

Do  not  entertain  so  weak  an  imagination  as  that  your  registers 
and  your  bonds,  your  affidavits  and  your  sufferances,  your  cockets 
and  your  clearances,  are  what  form  the  great  securities  of  your 
commerce.  Do  not  dream  that  your  letters  of  office,  and  your  in- 
structions, and  your  suspending  clauses,  are  the  things  that  hold 
together  the  great  contexture  of  the  mysterious  whole.  These 
things  do  not  make  your  government.  Dead  instruments,  passive 
tools  as  they  are,  it  is  the  spirit  of  the  English  communion  that 
gives  all  their  life  and  efficacy  to  them.  It  is  the  spirit  of  the 
English  constitution,  which,  infused  through  the  mighty  mass,  per- 


84  EDMUND  BURKE   ON  CONCILIATION 

vades,  feeds,  unites,  invigorates,  vivifies  every  part  of  the  empire, 
even  down  to  the  minutest  member. 

Is  it  not  the  same  virtue  which  does  everything  for  us  here  in 
England  ?  Do  you  imagine,  then,  that  it  is  the  Land-tax  Act  which 
raises  your  revenue ;  that  it  is  the  annual  vote  in  the  committee 
of  supply  which  gives  you  your  army ;  or  that  it  is  the  mutiny  bill 
which  inspires  it  with  bravery  and  discipline  ?  No !  Surely  no ! 
It  is  the  love  of  the  people ;  it  is  their  attachment  to  their  govern- 
ment from  the  sense  of  the  deep  stake  they  have  in  such  a  glorious 
institution,  which  gives  you  your  army  and  your  navy,  and  infuses 
into  both  that  liberal  obedience  without  which  your  army  would 
be  a  base  rabble,  and  your  navy  nothing  but  rotten  timber. 

All  this,  I  know  well  enough,  will  sound  wild  and  chimerical 
to  the  profane  herd  of  those  vulgar  and  mechanical  politicians 
who  have  no  place  among  us :  a  sort  of  people  who  think  that 
nothing  exists  but  what  is  gross  and  material ;  and  who,  therefore, 
far  from  being  qualified  to  be  directors  of  the  great  movement  of 
empire,  are  not  fit  to  turn  a  wheel  in  the  machine.  But  to  men 
truly  initiated  and  rightly  taught,  these  ruling  and  master  princi- 
ples which,  in  the  opinion  of  such  men  as  I  have  mentioned,  have 
no  substantial  existence,  are  in  truth  everything,  and  all  in  all. 
Magnanimity  in  politics  is  not  seldom  the  truest  wisdom ;  and  a 
great  empire  and  little  minds  go  ill  together.  If  we  are  conscious 
of  our  situation,  and  glow  with  zeal  to  fill  our  place  as  becomes 
our  station  and  ourselves,  we  ought  to  auspicate  ^  all  our  public 
proceedings  on  America  with  the  old  warning  of  the  church, 
Sursum  corda  1 2  We  ought  to  elevate  our  minds  to  the  greatness 
of  that  trust  to  which  the  order  of  Providence  has  called  us.  By 
adverting  to  the  dignity  of  this  high  calling,  our  ancestors  have 
turned  a  savage  wilderness  into  a  glorious  empire ;  and  have  made 
the  most  extensive  and  the  only  honorable  conquests,  not  by  de- 
stroying, but  by  promoting  the  wealth,  the  number,  the  happiness 
of  the  human  race.  Let  us  get  an  American  revenue  as  we  have 
got  an  American  empire.  English  privileges  have  made  it  all 
that  it  is ;  English  privileges  alone  will  make  it  all  it  can  be. 

1  Inaugurate.  2  «  Lift  up  your  hearts,"  —  a  call  to  prayer. 


WITH  THE  AMERICAN  COLONIES,  8$ 

In  full  confidence  of  this  unalterable  truth,  I  now  (quodfelix 
faustiimque  sit)  i  lay  the  first  stone  of  the  temple  of  peace ;  and  I 
move  you, — 

"  That  the  colonies  and  plantations  of  Great  Britain  in  North 
America,  consisting  of  fourteen  separate  governments,  and  con- 
taining two  minions  and  upwards  of  free  inhabitants,  have  not  had 
the  liberty  and  privilege  of  electing  and  sending  any  knights  and 
burgesses,  or  others,  to  represent  them  in  the  high  court  of  Par- 
liament."   

Upon  this  resolution  the  previous  question  was  put,  and  carried ; 
for  the  previous  question  270,  against  it  78. 


As  the  propositions  were  opened  separately  in  the  body  of  the 
speech,  the  reader  perhaps  may  wish  to  see  the  whole  of  them  to- 
gether, in  the  form  in  which  they  were  moved. 

Mr.  Burke's  Propositions. 

"  That  the  colonies  and  plantations  of  Great  Britain  in  North 
America,  consisting  of  fourteen  separate  governments,  and  con- 
taining two  millions  and  upwards  of  free  inhabitants,  have  not  had 
the  liberty  and  privilege  of  electing  and  sending  any  knights  and 
burgesses,  or  others,  to  represent  them  in  the  high  court  of  Par- 
liament. 

"  That  the  said  colonies  and  plantations  have  been  made  liable  to, 
and  bounden  by,  several  subsidies,  payments,  rates,  and  taxes,  given 
and  granted  by  Parliament ;  though  the  said  colonies  and  planta- 
tions have  not  their  knights  and  burgesses,  in  the  said  high  court 
of  Parliament,  of  their  own  election,  to  represent  the  condition  of 
their  country ;  by  lack  whereof^  they  have  been  of te7i times  touched 
and  grieved  by  subsidies  given ^  granted^  and  assented  to,  in  the  said 
court,  in  a  manner  prejudicial  to  the  commonwealth,  quietness,  rest, 
and  peace  of  the  subjects  inhabiting  within  the  same,^ 

1  "  May  it  be  happy  and  auspicious." 

2  The  words  in  Italics,  in  this  and  the  last  motion,  were,  by  an  amendment 
that  was  carried,  left  out  of  the  motion. 


86  EDMUND  BURKE   ON  CONCILIATION 

"  That,  from  the  distance  of  the  said  colonies,  and  from  other 
circumstances,  no  method  hath  hitherto  been  devised  for  procur- 
ing a  representation  in  ParUament  for  the  said  colonies. 

"  That  each  of  the  said  colonies  hath  within  itself  a  body,  chosen, 
in  part  or  in  the  whole,  by  the  freemen,  freeholders,  or  other  free 
inhabitants  thereof,  commonly  called  the  general  assembly,  or  gen- 
eral court;  with  powers  legally  to  raise,  levy,  and  assess,  accord- 
ing to  the  several  usage  of  such  colonies,  duties  and  taxes  towards 
defraying  all  sorts  of  public  services. 

"  That  the  said  general  assemblies,  general  courts,  or  other 
bodies,  legally  qualified  as  aforesaid,  have  at  sundry  times  freely 
granted  several  large  subsidies  and  public  aids  for  his  Majesty's 
service,  according  to  their  abilities,  when  required  thereto  by  letter 
from  one  of  his  Majesty's  principal  secretaries  of  state ;  and  that 
their  right  to  grant  the  same,  and  their  cheerfulness  and  sufficiency 
in  the  said  grants,  have  been  at  sundry  times  acknowledged  by 
Parliament. 

"  That  it  hath  been  found  by  experience,  that  the  manner  of 
granting  the  said  supplies  and  aids,  by  the  said  general  assemblies, 
hath  been  more  agreeable  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  said  colonies, 
and  more  beneficial  and  conducive  to  the  public  service,  than  the 
mode  of  giving  and  granting  aids  and  subsidies  in  Parliament  to 
be  raised  and  paid  in  the  said  colonies. 

"  That  it  may  be  proper  to  repeal  an  act,  made  in  the  seventh 
year  of  the  reign  of  his  present  Majesty,  intituled :  An  act  for 
granting  certain  duties  in  the  British  colonies  and  plantations  in 
America ;  for  allowing  a  drawback  of  the  duties  of  customs,  upon 
the  exportation  from  this  kingdom,  of  coffee  and  cocoanuts  of  the 
produce  of  the  said  colonies  or  plantations ;  for  discontinuing  the 
drawbacks  payable  on  China  earthenware  exported  to  America ; 
and  for  more  effectually  preventing  the  clandestine  running  of 
goods  in  the  said  colonies  and  plantations. 

"  That  it  may  be  proper  to  repeal  an  act,  made  in  the  fourteenth 
year  of  the  reign  of  his  present  Majesty,  intituled :  An  act  to  discon- 
tinue, in  such  manner  and  for  such  time  as  are  therein  mentioned, 
the  landing  and  discharging,  lading  or  shipping  of  goods,  wares, 


WITH  THE  AMERICAN  COLONIES,  87 

and  merchandise,  at  the  town,  and  within  the  harbor,  of  Boston,  in 
the  province  of  Massachusetts  Bay,  in  North  America. 

"  That  it  may  be  proper  to  repeal  an  act,  made  in  the  four- 
teenth year  of  the  reign  of  his  present  Majesty,  intituled:  An  act 
for  the  impartial  administration  of  justice,  in  the  cases  of  persons 
questioned  for  any  acts  done  by  them,  in  the  execution  of  the 
law,  or  for  the  suppression  of  riots  and  tumults,  in  the  province  of 
Massachusetts  Bay,  in  New  England. 

*'That  it  is  proper  to  repeal  an  act,  made  in  the  fourteenth 
year  of  the  reign  of  his  present  Majesty,  intituled:  An  act  for  the 
better  regulating  the  government  of  the  province  of  Massachu- 
setts Bay,  in  New  England. 

"  That  it  is  proper  to  explain  and  amend  an  act  made  in  the 
thirty-fifth  year  of  the  reign  of  King  Henry  VIII.,  intituled  :  An 
act  for  the  trial  of  treasons  committed  out  of  the  king's  do- 
minions. 

"  That,  from  the  time  when  the  general  assembly,  or  general 
court,  of  any  colony  or  plantation,  in  North  America,  shall  have 
appointed,  by  act  of  assembly  duly  confirmed,  a  settled  salary  to 
the  offices  of  the  chief  justice  and  judges  of  the  superior  courts,  it 
may  be  proper  that  the  said  chief  justice  and  other  judges  of  the 
superior  courts  of  such  colony  shall  hold  his  and  their  office  and 
offices  during  their  good  behavior ;  and  shall  not  be  removed  there- 
from, but  when  the  said  removal  shall  be  adjudged  by  his  Maj- 
esty in  council,  upon  a  hearing  on  complaint  from  the  general  as- 
sembly, or  on  a  complaint  from  the  governor,  or  council,  or  the 
house  of  representatives,  severally,  of  the  colony  in  which  the  said 
chief  justice  and  other  judges  have  exercised  the  said  office. 

"  That  it  may  be  proper  to  regulate  the  courts  of  admiralty,  or 
vice-admiralty,  authorized  by  the  fifteenth  chapter  of  the  fourth 
of  George  III.,  in  such  a  manner,  as  to  make  the  same  more  com- 
modious to  those  who  sue,  or  are  sued,  in  the  said  courts ;  and  to 
provide  for  the  more  decent  maintenaiice  of  the  judges  of  the  same.^^  1 

1  The  first  four  motions  and  the  last  had  the  previous  question  put  on  them. 
The  others  were  negatived. 


ECLECTIC   ENGLISH   CLASSICS 


THE  TRAGEDY 


OF 


MACBETH 


BY 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE 


WITH   AN   APPENDIX   CONTAINING   SUGGESTIONS 
FOR  ITS  STUDY 

BY 
FRANKLIN  THOMAS  BAKER,    A.  M. 

TEACHERS    COLLEGE,  COLUMBIA    UNIVERSITY 


NEW  YORK  •:•  CINCINNATI  •:•  CHICAGO 

AMERICAN    BOOK   COMPANY 


Copyright,  1895,  1898,  by 
American  Book  Company, 

Macbeth. 


INTRODUCTION. 


The  tragedy  of  *' Macbeth  "  —  one  of  the  grandest  and  most 
wonderful  creations  of  Shakespeare's  genius — appeared  in  print 
for  the  first  time  in  the  foHo  of  1623,  the  earhest  pubHshed  col- 
lection of  the  dramatist's  plays. 

The  plot  is  derived  from  two  independent  and  wholly  unre- 
lated stories  in  Holinshed's  "  Chronicles  of  England,  Scotland, 
and  Ireland  "  (1587),  a  curious  collection  of  superstitious  legends, 
unreliable  traditions,  and  a  very  few  facts.  The  play  is  in  no 
sense  historical,  though  Duncan,  King  of  Scotland,  was  treach- 
erously murdered  in  1040,  and  Macbeth  was  his  assassin  and 
successor. 

The  drama  may  be  thus  briefly  outHned :  Macbeth,  Thane  of 
Glamis,  kinsman  of  Duncan,  King  of  Scotland,  achieves  a  signal 
victory  over  Norway's  king,  Sweno,  who,  embracing  the  oppor- 
tunity afforded  by  a  rebeUion  in  Scotland  headed  by  the  Thane  of 
Cawdor,  had  invaded  the  kingdom.  Duncan  decrees  the  death 
of  the  traitorous  thane,  whose  title  he  confers  on  Macbeth,  and 
dispatches  two  nobles  of  the  court  to  advise  Macbeth  of  his  new 
*'  addition  "  and  advancement. 

In  the  mean  time,  Macbeth  and  Banquo,  crossing  a  blasted 
heath,  are  suddenly  confronted  by  three  witches,  or  *'  weird  sis- 
ters," who  successively  hail  Macbeth  as  Thane  of  Glamis,  Thane 

3 


4  INTRODUCTION, 

of  Cawdor,  and  as  one  who  shall  be  king  hereafter ;  greet  Banquo 
as  "  lesser  than  Macbeth,  and  greater,"  that  shall  be  the  ancestor 
of  kings,  though  not  a  king  himself;  and  then  vanish  as  sud- 
denly as  they  had  appeared.  The  messengers  from  the  King 
then  arrive,  and  salute  Macbeth  as  Thane  of  Cawdor,  assuring 
him  that  greater  honors  await  him  at  the  hand  of  his  royal  master. 

The  first  prophetic  greeting  of  the  witches  thus  quickly  verified, 
their  tempting  prediction  of  regal  honors  inflames  the  ambitious 
desires  of  Macbeth ;  and,  being  further  incited  by  the  inordinate 
and  unscrupulous  ambition  of  his  wife,  the  two  contrive  the  death 
of  their  sovereign.  An  occasion  offers  when  Duncan  —  with  his 
sons  Malcolm  and  Donalbain,  and  their  retinue — is  a  guest  at 
their  castle ;  and  they  proceed  to  execute  their  bloody  and  per- 
fidious purpose.  Lady  Macbeth  having  so  drugged  the  drink  of 
the  guardians  of  Duncan's  chamber  that  they  lie  in  swinish  sleep, 
Macbeth  enters  the  room  at  dead  of  night,  and  with  the  daggers 
of  the  attendants  stabs  the  sleeping  king.  Dazed  by  the  atrocity 
of  his  own  act,  Macbeth  steals  from  the  chamber  with  the  bloody 
weapons  in  his  hands.  He  is  met  by  his  wife,  who  seizes  the 
daggers,  and  replaces  them  by  the  side  of  the  snoring  grooms, 
whose  faces  she  smears  with  blood ;  for,  as  she  tells  her  husband, 
it  must  appear  that  the  murder  was  done  by  these  besotted  ser- 
vants. Malcolm  suspects  treachery,  and  flies  to  England,  while 
Donalbain  speeds  to  Ireland. 

Macbeth,  the  next  in  succession,  assumes  the  crown ;  but  his 
guilty  conscience  gives  him  little  rest.  He  suspects  and  fears  all 
around  him.  Especially  is  Banquo  the  object  of  his  dread  and 
jealous  hatred ;  and  he  has  Banquo  waylaid  and  killed.  Still 
harassed  by  "horrible  imaginings,"  Macbeth  seeks  the  weird  sis- 
ters, and  demands  that  they  unfold  to  him  his  future  fate ;  where- 


INTRODUCTION.  5 

upon  three  apparitions  present  themselves  to  his  disordered  mind. 
One  warns  him  to  beware  of  Macduff ;  the  second  urges  him  to 
be  bold  and  resolute,  as  none  of  woman  born  has  power  to  harm 
him ;  and  the  third  assures  him  he  shall  never  be  vanquished  till 
Birnam  Wood  shall  come  to  Dunsinane.  Then  Banquo's  ghost 
appears  with  the  semblances  of  eight  kings,  the  long  line  of  Ban- 
quo's  descendants,  future  successors  to  the  crown  which  Macbeth 
wears.  Although  his  fear  of  Macduff  is  somewhat  allayed  by  the 
utterances  of  the  second  apparition,  in  order  to  ''  make  assurance 
doubly  sure  "  Macbeth  sends  to  Macduff's  castle,  and,  faihng  to 
find  him,  has  his  wife  and  children  put  to  death. 

The  opening  of  the  fifth  act  is  a  sleepwalking  scene,  in  which 
Lady  Macbeth  enters  in  her  nightdress,  holding  a  lighted  taper 
in  her  hand,  fast  asleep,  though  her  eyes  are  open,  and  entirely 
unconscious  of  her  surroundings.  Here,  in  the  presence  of  her 
astounded  physician  and  her  waiting  woman,  she  betrays  in  fitful 
mutterings  and  disconnected  sentences  the  dread  secret  of  the 
terrible  crime  in  which  she  had  participated.  The  death  of 
Lady  Macbeth,  who,  ''  as  'tis  thought,  by  self  and  violent  hands 
took  off  her  Hfe,"  occurs  before  the  denouement  of  the  tragedy. 

Macduff  having  joined  Malcolm  in  England,  they  raise  an 
army  there,  unite  with  a  force  of  Scots  already  in  arms  to  resist 
Macbeth,  and  prepare  to  besiege  the  usurper  in  his  stronghold  on 
Dunsinane  Hill.  As  they  pass  Birnam  Wood,  Malcolm,  in  order 
to  conceal  the  numbers  of  his  force,  commands  that  his  followers 
cut  branches  from  the  trees,  and  that  each  soldier  bear  one  before 
him  on  the  march.  An  astonished  sentinel  on  the  walls  reports 
to  Macbeth  in  the  castle  that,  looking  towards  Birnam,  he  saw  the 
wood  begin  to  move.  Terrified  by  the  announcement,  Macbeth 
at  once  saUies  out  with  his  garrison,  gives  battle  to  the  besiegers, 


6  INTRODUCTION. 

and  meets  Macduff,  whom  he  would  have  avoided,  but  who  chal- 
lenges him  to  personal  combat.  Macbeth  replies  that  it  would 
be  labor  lost;  that  he  bears  a  charmed  hfe,  invulnerable  to  the 
assaults  of  any  man  born  of  woman.  Macduff  then  reveals  the 
extraordinary  circumstances  of  his  birth,  and  demands  that  Mac- 
beth fight,  or  yield.  Though  appalled  by  the  disclosure,  and  curs- 
ing the  ''juggling  fiends"  who  had  deceived  him,  Macbeth  does 
not  yield,  but  with  the  courage  of  despair  will  fight  to  the  last, 
and  tells  Macduff  to  do  his  worst.  They  encounter.  Macbeth  is 
slain  ;  and  Malcolm,  the  rightful  heir  to  the  crown,  is  proclaimed 
King  of  Scotland. 

Professor  Dowden  (''Shakespeare")  remarks  of  this  tragedy: 
"While  in  '  R^omeo  and  Juhet,'  and  in  'Hamlet,'  we  feel  that 
Shakespeare  now  began  and  now  left  off,  and  refined  upon  or 
brooded  over  his  thoughts,  '  Macbeth '  seems  as  if  struck  out  at 
a  heat,  and  imagined  from  first  to  last  with  unabated  fervor.  It 
is  like  a  sketch  by  a  great  master,  in  which  everything  is  executed 
with  rapidity  and  power,  and  a  subtlety  of  workmanship  which 
has  become  instinctive.  The  theme  of  the  drama  is  the  gradual 
ruin,  through  yielding  to  evil  within  and  evil  without,  of  a  man 
who,  though  from  the  first  tainted  by  base  and  ambitious  thoughts, 
yet  possessed  elements  in  his  nature  of  possible  honor  and  loyalty. 
The  contrast  between  Macbeth  and  Lady  Macbeth,  united  by 
their  affections,  their  fortunes,  and  their  crime,  is  made  to  illus- 
trate and  light  up  the  character  of  each.  Macbeth  has  physical 
courage,  but  moral  weakness,  and  is  subject  to  excited  imagina- 
tive fears.  His  faint  and  intermittent  loyalty  embarrasses  him : 
he  would  have  the  gains  of  crime  without  its  pains.  But  when 
once  his  hands  are  dyed  in  blood,  he  hardly  cares  to  withdraw 


INTRODUCTION,  .  7 

them ;  and  the  same  fears  which  had  tended  to  hold  him  back 
from  murder  now  urge  him  on  to  double  and  treble  murders, 
until  slaughter,  almost  reckless,  becomes  the  habit  of  his  reign. 
At  last  the  gallant  soldier  of  the  opening  of  the  play  fights  for 
his  life  with  a  wild  and  brutehke  force.  His  whole  existence  has 
become  joyless  and  loveless,  and  yet  he  cHngs  to  existence. 

"  Lady  Macbeth  is  of  a  finer  and  more  delicate  nature.  Hav- 
ing fixed  her  eye  upon  an  end,  —  the  attainment  for  her  husband  of 
Duncan's  crown,  —  she  accepts  the  inevitable  means;  she  nerves 
herself  for  the  terrible  night's  work  by  artificial  stimulants;  yet 
she  cannot  strike  the  sleeping  King,  who  resembles  her  father. 
Having  sustained  her  weaker  husband,  her  own  strength  gives 
way ;  and  in  sleep,  when  her  will  cannot  control  her  thoughts, 
she  is  piteously  afflicted  by  the  memory  of  one  stain  of  blood 
upon  her  little  hand.  At  last  her  thread  of  life  '.-naps  suddenly. 
Macbeth,  whose  affection  for  her  was  real,  has  sunk  too  far  into 
the  apathy  of  joyless  crime  to  feel  deeply  her  loss. 

^*  Banquo,  the  loyal  soldier,  praying  for  restraint  of  evil 
thoughts,  which  enter  his  mind  as  they  had  entered  that  of  Mac- 
beth, but  which  work  no  evil  there,  is  set  over  against  Macbeth, 
as  virtue  is  set  over  against  disloyalty. 

*^  The  witches  are  the  supernatural  beings  of  terror,  in  harmony 
with  Shakespeare's  tragic  period,  as  the  fairies  of  the  '  Midsum- 
mer-Night's Dream '  are  the  supernatural  beings  of  his  days  of 
fancy  and  frolic,  and  as  Ariel  is  the  supernatural  genius  of  his 
later  period.  There  is  at  once  a  grossness,  a  horrible  reality 
about  the  witches,  and  a  mystery  and  grandeur  of  evil  influence." 

"This  tragedy,"  says  Gervinus  ("  Shakespeare  Commentaries," 
translation  of  F.  E.  Bunnett,  London,  1875),  "has  ever  been  re- 


8  «  INTRODUCTION. 

garded  and  criticised  with  distinguishing  preference  among  Shake- 
speare's works.  If  perhaps  no  other  play  can  vie  with  '  Hamlet ' 
in  philosophical  insight  into  the  nature  and  worth  of  the  various 
powers  at  work  in  man  ;  ...  if  none  can  compare  with  '  Othello ' 
in  profoundness  of  design  and  careful  carrying  out  of  the  charac- 
ters ;  if  none  with  ^  Lear '  in  the  power  of  contending  passions, 
and  none  with  '  Cymbehne '  in  the  importance  of  moral  principles, 
'Macbeth'  in  like  manner  stands  forth  uniquely  preeminent  in  the 
splendor  of  poetic  and  picturesque  diction  and  in  the  living  rep- 
resentation of  persons,  times,  and  places.  How  grandly  do  the 
mighty  forms  rise ;  how  naturally  do  they  move  in  heroic  style  ! 
''  Locally  we  are  transported  into  the  Highlands  of  Scotland, 
where  everything  appears  tinged  with  superstition,  full  of  tangible 
intercommunion  with  the  supernatural  world  and  prognostics  of 
the  moral  life  by  signs  in  the  animate  and  inanimate  kingdom ; 
while,  in  uniformity  with  this,  men  are  credulous  in  belief,  and 
excitable  in  fancy ;  where  they  speak  with  strong  expression, 
with  highly  poetical  language,  and  with  unusual  imagery.  .  .  . 
This  mastery  over  the  general  representation  of  time  and  place 
is  rivaled  by  the  pictures  of  single  circumstances  and  situations. 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  justly  admired  that  description  of  the  mart- 
let's resort  to  Macbeth's  dwelling  as  a  charming  image  of  repose, 
following,  by  way  of  contrast,  the  lively  picture  of  the  fight. 
More  justly  still  has  praise  been  always  lavished  on  the  powerful 
representation  of  the  horrible  in  that  night  wandering  of  Lady 
Macbeth,  in  the  banquet  scene,  and  in  the  dismal  creation  of  the 
weird  sisters.  And  far  above  all  this  is  the  speaking  truth  of 
the  scenes  at  the  murder  of  Duncan  ;  .  .  .  the  fearful  whispered 
conference,  in  the  horrible  dimness  of  which  the  pair  arrange 
and  complete  their  atrocious  project ;  the  heartrending  portrai- 


INTRODUCTION,  9 

ture  of  Macbeth's  state  of  mind  at  the  deed  itself;  the  uneasy, 
half- waking  condition  of  the  sacrificed  attendants,  one  of  whom 
dreams  on  of  the  evening's  feast,  the  other,  in  paralyzed  con- 
sciousness, seems  to  anticipate  the  impending  atrocity. 

*'  In  the  witches,  Shakespeare  has  made  use  of  the  popular 
belief  in  evil  geniuses  and  in  adverse  persecutors  of  mankind, 
and  has  produced  a  similar  but  darker  race  of  beings,  just  as  he 
made  use  of  the  fairies  in  *  Midsummer-Night's  Dream.'  They 
are  simply  the  embodiment  of  inward  temptation.  .  .  .  Mac- 
beth, in  meeting  them,  has  to  struggle  against  no  external  power, 
but  only  with  his  own  nature.  .  .  .  Within  himself  the  evil  spirits 
dwell  which  allure  him  with  the  delusions  of  his  aspiring  mind. 
They  approach  him  as  he  stands  on  the  highest  step  of  his  for- 
tunes, his  power,  and  his  valor.  The  rebelhon  he  has  just  crushed 
places  him  above  the  weak  Duncan,  who  is  powerless  to  help 
himself;  the  newly  attained  rank  of  Thane  of  Cawdor  increases 
his  influence,  and  suggests  to  him  the  consideration  of  how  far 
more  successfully  he  could  have  played  the  part  of  traitor  than  the 
deposed  chief  who  bore  the  title  before  him ;  to  this  there  is 
added  the  opportunity  of  Duncan's  visit  and  the  influence  of  his 
wife. 

"  Banquo  is  opposed  to  Macbeth  as  a  complementary  character, 
and  this  contrast  is  displayed  at  once  in  the  relations  of  both  to 
the  witches'  temptation.  Banquo  has  the  same  heroic  courage, 
the  same  merit,  and  the  same  claims  as  Macbeth :  it  is  natural, 
therefore,  that  the  same  ambitious  thoughts  should  arise  in  one 
as  in  the  other.  But  in  Banquo  they  arise  in  a  calmer  nature, 
susceptible  of  the  finest  discretion,  and  therefore  they  do  not 
master  him  as  they  do  Macbeth.  .  .  .  Like  Macbeth,  he  has 
temptations  to  struggle  against;   but  he  withstands  them  with 


lo  INTRODUCTION, 

more  powerful  self-government.  He  has  tempting  dreams  which 
trouble  him ;  he  drives  them  away  by  prayer  that  they  may  not 
come  again  :  he  does  more  than  pray, — he  struggles  against  sleep 
itself,  that  he  may  escape  them.  Waking,  his  spirit  masters  the 
*  cursed  thoughts,'  while  in  sleep  nature  pays  tribute  to  the  blood 
by  giving  way  to  these  dreams.  In  his  unrest  he  meets  Macbeth. 
The  guiltless  man  confesses  his  dreams ;  the  guilty  denies  further 
thoughts  on  the  weird  sisters ;  he  who  at  first  had  himself  wished 
for  free  interchange  of  thought  now  avoids  it.  That  Banquo 
should  know  what  he  knows  is  oppressive  to  Macbeth ;  the  uncon- 
scientious man  feels  burdened  by  the  presence  of  the  conscien- 
tious one,  the  evil  by  the  good,  the  envious  by  the  successful. 
Banquo  might  have  been  his  good  angel ;  but,  avoiding  intercourse 
with  him,  Macbeth  falls  under  the  influence  of  his  evil  genius, 
his  wife. 

"  The  complete  antitype  to  her  husband's  irritable  and  imagi- 
native nature,  Lady  Macbeth  is  calm  in  judgment  and  cold  in 
blood.  No  supernatural  temptation  approaches  her,  but  only  the 
substantial  one  in  her  husband's  letter.  No  warning  voice  of 
conscience,  no  forebodings  of  terrible  consequences,  alarm  her  as 
they  did  Macbeth  before  the  deed ;  while  it  is  being  perpetrated, 
she  remains  circumspect,  deliberate,  ready  for  dissimulation  ;  after 
it,  she  would  have  been  able  speedily  to  forget  what  had  happened. 
...  A  will  of  uncommon  firmness  renders  her  in  a  remarkable 
manner  mistress  of  herself.  She  knows  that  by  dissimulation, 
foresight,  and  cunning,  she  could  commit  and  conceal  the  fatal 
deed  in  question.  She  scorns  the  bare  idea  that  she  could  fail. 
She  goes  through  her  part  so  perfectly  that  no  suspicion  falls  on 
her.  ...  Her  husband  contents  her  only  when  he  conceives 
the  idea  of  creating  for  himself  the  opportunity  which  now  offers 


INTRODUCTION.  1 1 

itself  unexpectedly.  She  urges  him  to  snatch  as  prey  what  may 
be  the  gift  of  destiny.  .  .  .  Knowing  her  consort  well,  she  arro- 
gates to  herself  the  manly  part  for  which  she  endeavors  to  screw 
up  her  nature  that  she  may  herself  perpetrate  the  murder.  Mac- 
beth, she  says,  is  only  to  look  up  clear,  and  leave  all  the  rest 
to  her ;  she  makes  the  plans,  and  talks  of  herself  and  him,  both 
of  whom  are  to  have  a  share  in  the  work ;  she  drugs  the  servants 
and  lays  their  daggers  ready.  .  .  .  She  would  even  gxw^  the  blow 
with  her  own  hands ;  but  at  the  moment  itself  her  overwrought 
nature  gives  way.  Those  ^  compunctious  visitings  of  nature ' 
which  she  had  banished  from  herself  shake  her  when  she  traces 
in  the  sleeping  King  a  resemblance  to  her  father ;  and  the  woman 
must  leave  that  business  to  a  man,  which  needs  more  than  man 
to  execute  it." 

Hazlitt  i!i'  Characters  of  Shakespeare's  Plays,"  New  York,  1845), 
in  a  critical  notice  of  this  play,  remarks :  '' '  Macbeth  '  (generally 
speaking)  is  done  upon  a  stronger  and  more  systematic  principle 
of  contrast  than  any  other  of  Shakespeare's  plays.  It  moves  upon 
the  verge  of  an  abyss,  and  is  a  constant  struggle  between  hfe  and 
death.  The  action  is  desperate  and  the  reaction  is  dreadful.  It 
is  a  huddling  together  of  fierce  extremes,  a  war  of  opposite 
natures  which  of  them  shall  destroy  the  other.  There  is  nothing 
but  what  has  a  violent  end  or  violent  beginnings.  The  lights 
and  shades  are  laid  on  with  a  determined  hand ;  the  transitions 
from  triumph  to  despair,  from  the  height  of  terror  to  the  repose 
of  death,  are  sudden  and  startling ;  every  passion  brings  in  its 
fellow-contrary,  and  the  thoughts  pitch  and  jostle  against  each 
other  as  in  the  dark.  The  whole  play  is  an  unruly  chaos  of 
strange  and  forbidden  things,  where  the  ground  rocks  under  our 


1 2  INTRO  D  UCTION. 

feet.  Shakespeare's  genius  here  took  its  full  swing,  and  trod 
upon  the  farthest  bounds  of  nature  and  passion.  This  circum- 
stance will  account  for  the  abruptness  and  violent  antitheses  of 
the  style,  the  throes  and  labor  which  run  through  the  expression, 
and  from  defects  will  turn  them  into  beauties,  — '  So  fair  and 
foul  a  day,*  etc. ;  'Such  welcome  and  unwelcome  news  together;' 
*  Look  like  the  innocent  flower,  but  be  the  serpent  under  it.' 
The  scene  before  the  castle  gate  follows  the  appearance  of  the 
witches  on  the  heath,  and  is  followed  by  a  midnight  murder. 
...  In  Lady  Macbeth's  speech,  *  Had  he  not  resembled  my 
father  as  he  slept,  I  had  done't,'  there  is  murder  and  filial  piety 
together ;  and  in  urging  him  [her  husband]  to  fulfill  his  vengeance 
against  the  defenseless  King,  her  thoughts  spare  the  blood  of 
neither  infants  nor  old  age.  The  description  of  the  witches  is 
full  of  the  same  contradictory  principle,  —  they  are  neither  of  the 
earth  nor  the  air,  but  both ;  '  they  should  be  women,  but  their 
beards  forbid  it;'  they  take  all  the  pains  possible  to  lead  Mac- 
beth on  to  the  height  of  his  ambition,  only  to  betray  him  *in 
deepest  consequence,'  and,  after  showing  him  all  the  pomp  of 
their  art,  discover  their  malignant  delight  in  his  disappointed  hopes 
by  that  bitter  taunt,  '  Why  stands  Macbeth  thus  amazedly  ?  '  " 


MACBETH. 


PERSONS   OF   THE  FLAY. 


noblemen  of  Scotland. 


Duncan,  King  of  Scotland. 

Malcolm,     )  , . 

T^  y  his  sons. 

DONALBAIN,  S 

Macbeth,  >  generals  of  the   King's 

Banquo,     \  army. 

Macduff, 

Lennox, 

Ross, 

Menteith, 

Angus, 

Caithness, 

Fleance,  son  to  Banquo. 

SlWARD,  Earl  of  Northumberland, 
general  of  the  English  forces. 

Young  SlWARD,  his  son. 

Seyton,  an  officer  attending  on  Mac- 
beth. 

Boy,  son  to  Macduff. 


An  English  Doctor. 
A  Scotch  Doctor. 
A  Soldier. 
A  Porter. 
An  Old  Man. 

Lady  Macbeth. 
Lady  Macduff. 

Gentlewoman  attending  on  Lady  Mac- 
beth. 

Hecate. 
Three  Witches. 
Apparitions. 

Lords,  Gentlemen,  Officers,  Soldiers, 

Murderers,  Attendants,  and 

Messengers. 


Scene  :   Scotland ;  England. 


ACT    I. 

Scene  L     A  Desert  Place. 

Thunder  and  Lightning.     Enter  three  Witches. 

First  Witch.    When  shall  we  three  meet  again 
In  thunder,  hghtning,  or  in  rain  ? 

Second  Witch.    When  the  hurlyburly's  ^  done, 
When  the  battle's  lost  and  won. 

1  Tumult. 
13 


14  SHAKESPEARE,  [act  i. 

Third  Witch,    That  will  be  ere  the  set  of  sun. 
First  Witch.    Where  the  place  ? 
Second  Witch.  Upon  the  heath. 

Third  Witch.    There  to  meet  with  Macbeth. 
First  Witch.    I  come,  Graymalkin  ! ' 
Second  Witch.    Paddock  2  calls. 
Third  Witch.    Anon. 
All.    Fair  is  foul,  and  foul  is  fair ; 
Hover  through  the  fog  and  filthy  air.  [Exeunt. 


Scene  II.     A  Camp  7iear  Forres. 

Alarum  within.     Enter  Duncan,  Malcolm,  Donalbain,  Lennox,  with 
Attendants,  meeting  a  bleeding  Sergeant. 

Duncan.    What  bloody  man  is  that  ?     He  can  report, 
As  seemeth  by  his  phght,  of  the  revolt 
The  newest  state. 

Malcolm.  This  is  the  sergeant 

Who  like  a  good  and  hardy  soldier  fought 
'Gainst  my  captivity.  —  Hail,  brave  friend  ! 
Say  to  the  King  the  knowledge  of  the  broil 
As  thou  didst  leave  it. 

Sergeant.  Doubtful  it  stood  ; 

As  two  spent  swimmers,  that  do  cling  together 
And  choke  their  art.     The  merciless  Macdonwald  — 
Worthy  to  be  a  rebel,  for  to  that 
The  multiplying  villainies  of  nature 
Do  swarm  upon  him — from  the  Western  Isles  ^ 
Of  kerns  and  gallowglasses^  is  suppHed ; 

1  Cat. 

2  Toad.     Cats  and  toads  were  supposed  to  be  familiar  spirits  of  witches. 

3  The  Hebrides. 

*  **  Of  kerns,"  etc.,  i.e.,  with  kerns  and  gallowglasses,  who  are  thus  de- 
scribed in  Hunter's  note,  quoted  by  Furness  (Variorum  Shakespeare, vol.  ii.)  : 


SCENE  II.  ]  MA  CBE  TH,  1 5 

And  Fortune,  on  his  damned  quarrel  smiling, 
Show'd  like  a  rebel's  wench :  but  alPs  too  weak ; 
For  brave  Macbeth — well  he  deserves  that  name — 
Disdaining  Fortune,  with  his  brandish'd  steel, 
Which  smok'd  with  bloody  execution, 
Like  valor's  minion  ^  carv'd  out  his  passage 
Till  he  fac'd  the  slave ; 

And  ne'er  shook  hands,  nor  bade  farewell  to  him, 
Till  he  unseam'd  him  from  the  nave  to  the  chaps,^ 
And  fix'd  his  head  upon  our  battlements. 

Duncan.    O  valiant  cousin  !  worthy  gentleman  ! 

Sergeant    As  whence  the  sun  'gins  his  reflection 
Shipwrecking  storms  and  direful  thunders  break,^ 
So  from  that  spring  whence  comfort  seem'd  to  come 
Discomfort  swells.     Mark,  King  of  Scotland,  mark : 
No  sooner  justice  had,  with  valor  arm'd, 
Compell'd  these  skipping  kerns  to  trust  their  heels, 
But  the  Norweyan  lord,  surveying  vantage,^ 
With  furbish'd  arms  and  new  supphes  of  men 
Began  a  fresh  assault. 

Duncan.  Dismay'd  not  this 

Our  captains,  Macbeth  and  Banquo  ? 

Sergeant.  Yes ; 

As  sparrows  eagles,  or  the  hare  the  lion. 
If  I  say  sooth,^  I  must  report  they  were 

'*  Their  foot  [speaking  of  the  Milesian  race,  the  ancient  inhabitants  of  Ireland] 
were  of  two  sorts,  the  heavy  and  light  armed ;  the  first  were  called  Galloglachs, 
armed  with  a  helmet  and  coat  of  mail  bound  with  iron  rings,  and  wore  a  long 
sword.  .  .  .  The  light-armed  infantry,  called  Keherns,  fought  with  bearded 
javelins  and  short  daggers." 

1  Favorite.  2  Cheeks. 

3  "  As  whence,"  etc.  The  allusion  is  to  the  vernal  equinox,  when  the 
sun,  beginning  its  reflex  course  towards  us,  occasions,  by  its  increasing 
warmth,  the  disastrous  equinoctial  storms. 

*  "  Surveying  vantage,"  i.e.,  perceiving  an  opportunity. 

5  Truth, 


1 6  SHAKESPEARE.  [act  i. 

As  cannons  overcharg'd  with  double  cracks ; 

So  they  doubly  redoubled  strokes  upon  the  foe. 

Except  they  meant  to  bathe  in  reeking  wounds, 

Or  memorize  ^  another  Golgotha,^ 

I  cannot  tell — 

But  I  am  faint ;  my  gashes  cry  for  help. 

Duncan,    So  well  thy  words  become  thee  as  thy  wounds ; 
They  smack  of  honor  both.  —  Go  get  him  surgeons.  — 

\Exit  Sergeant,  attended. 
Who  comes  here  ? 

Enter  Ross. 

Malcolm.  The  worthy  Thane  ^  of  Ross. 

Lemiox.    What  a  haste  looks  through  his  eyes!     So  should  he 
look 
That  seems  to  speak  things  strange. 

Ross,  God  save  the  King  ! 

Duncan,    Whence  cam'st  thou,  worthy  thane  ? 

Ross.  From  Fife,  great  King ; 

Where  the  Norweyan  banners  flout  the  sky 
And  fan  our  people  cold.     Norway  himself. 
With  terrible  numbers. 
Assisted  by  that  most  disloyal  traitor 
The  Thane  of  Cawdor,  began  a  dismal  conflict ; 
Till  that  Bellona's  bridegroom,^  lapp'd  in  proof,^ 
Confronted  him  with  self-comparisons,^ 
Point  against  point  rebeUious,  arm  'gainst  arm, 

1  Make  memorable. 

2  See  Matt,  xxvii.  2tZ- 

8  An  ancient  Scotch  title  of  nobility. 

*  **  Bellona's  bridegroom,"  i.e.,  Macbeth.  Bellona,  or  Enyo,  as  described 
by  the  Latin  poets,  was  the  wife  or  sister  of  Mars.  She  attended  him  in  battle, 
drove  his  chariot,  and  watched  over  his  safety  generally. 

^  '*Lapp'd  in  proof,"  i.e.,  clad  or  wrapped  in  armor  proof  against  all 
blows. 

6  *'  Selfsame  comparisons ;  as  well  armed  and  endued  with  equal  courage. 


SCENE  III.]  MACBETH.  17 

Curbing  his  lavish  spirit ;  and,  to  conclude, 
The  victory  fell  on  us. 

Duncan.  Great  happiness  ! 

Ross.  That  now 

Sweno,  the  Norways*  king,  craves  composition;^ 
Nor  would  we  deign  him  burial  of  his  men 
Till  he  disbursed,  at  Saint  Colme's  Inch,^ 
Ten  thousand  dollars  to  our  general  use. 

Duncan.    No  more  that  Thane  of  Cawdor  shall  deceive 
Our  bosom  interest.     Go  pronounce  his  present  death, 
And  with  his  former  title  greet  Macbeth. 

Ross.    I'll  see  it  done. 

Duncan.   What  he  hath  lost  noble  Macbeth  hath  won.  [Exeunt. 

Scene  III.     A  Heath  near  Forres. 
Thunder.     Enter  the  three  Witches. 

First  Witch.    Where  hast  thou  been,  sister  ? 

Second  Witch.    Killing  swine. 

Third  Witch.    Sister,  where  thou  ? 

First  Witch.    A  sailor's  wife  had  chestnuts  in  her  lap. 
And    munch'd    and    munch'd    and    munch'd.       *'  Give    me," 

quoth  I. 
"  Aroint  ^  thee,  witch  !  "  the  rump-fed  ronyon  ^  cries. 
Her  husband's  to  Aleppo  gone,  master  o*  the  Tiger; 
But  in  a  sieve  ^  I'll  thither  sail, 

1  "  Craves  composition,"  i.e.,  sues  for  terms  of  peace. 

2  A  small  island,  now  called  Inchcolm,  lying  in  the  Firth  of  Edinburgh, 
on  which,  as  Dyce  notes,  are  the  remains  of  an  abbey  dedicated  to  St.  Colomb. 
"  Inch  "  or  "  Inche  "  signifies  island  in  the  Erse  and  Irish  languages,  and 
there  are  numerous  islands  on  the  coast  of  Scotland  having  names  with  this 
affix. 

3  Begone!  avaunt! 

*  **  Rump-fed  ronyon,"  i.e.,  an  ill-fed,  ill-conditioned,  scabby  woman. 

5  Steevens  quotes  from  the  Life  of  Dr.  Fian  —  a  notable  sorcerer  burned 
at  Edinburgh,  January,  1 591  — how  **  that  he  and  a  number  of  witches  together 
went  to  sea,  each  one  in  a  riddle  or  sieve." 
2 


iS  SHAKESPEARE.  [act  i. 

And,  like  a  rat  without  a  tail,i 
V\\  do,  I'll  do,  and  I'll  do. 

Second  Witch,    I'll  give  thee  a  wind. 

First  Witch,    Thou'rt  kind. 

Third  Witch,    And  I  another. 

First  Witch,    I  myself  have  all  the  other, 
And  the  very  ports  they  blow,^ 
All  the  quarters  that  they  know 
r  the  shipman's  card.^ 
I  will  drain  him  dry  as  hay : 
Sleep  shall  neither  night  nor  day 
Hang  upon  his  penthouse  lid  ;  ^ 
He  shall  live  a  man  forbid ;  ^ 
Weary  se'nnights  ^  nine  times  nine 
Shall  he  dwindle,  peak,^  and  pine ; 
Though  his  bark  cannot  be  lost, 
Yet  it  shall  be  tempest-tost. 
Look  what  I  have. 

Second  Witch.    Show  me,  show  me. 

First  Witch.    Here  I  have  a  pilot's  thumb. 
Wrecked  as  homeward  he  did  come.  \prum  within. 

Third  Witch.    A  drum,  a  drum  ! 
Macbeth  doth  come. 

All.    The  weird  sisters,  hand  in  hand, 
Posters  8  of  the  sea  and  land. 
Thus  do  go  about,  about ; 

1  It  was  supposed  that  when  a  witch  took  the  form  of  an  animal,  the  tail 
would  be  lacking. 

2  "I  myself  have,"  etc.,  i.  e.,  I  myself  control  the  other  winds,  and  the 
very  ports  upon  which  they  blow. 

3  "Shipman's  card,"  i.e.,  a  circular  card  on  which,  radiating  from  its 
center,  are  painted  the  points  of  the  compass.  Over  this,  suspended  at  the 
center  on  a  pivot,  the  magnet  turns  which  determines  tl:  e  ship's  course. 

4  "  Penthouse  lid,"  i.e.,  the  eyelid  (figuratively). 

5  Bewitched.  «  Sevennights  ;  weeks. 
^  Grow  thin.  ^'  Rapid  travelers. 


SCENE  III.]  MACBETH.  I9 

Thrice  to  thine,  and  thrice  to  mine, 
And  thrice  again  to  make  up  nine.^ 
Peace!  the  charm's  wound  up. 

Enter  Macbeth  mid  Banquo. 

Macbeth,    So  foul  and  fair  a  day  I  have  not  seen. 

Banquo.    How  far  is't  call'd  to  Forres  ?  —  What  are  these 
So  wither'd  and  so  wild  in  their  attire, 
That  look  not  like  the  inhabitants  o'  the  earth, 
And  yet  are  on't  ?  —  Live  you  ?  or  are  you  aught 
That  man  may  question  ?    You  seem  to  understand  me, 
By  each  at  once  her  choppy  finger  laying 
Upon  her  skinny  lips.     You  should  be  women. 
And  yet  your  beards  2  forbid  me  to  interpret 
That  you  are  so. 

Macbeth.  Speak,  if  you  can.     What  are  you  ? 

First  Witch.    All    hail,    Macbeth  !    hail    to    thee.    Thane    of 
Glamis  ! 

Second  Witch.    All   hail,   Macbeth  !    hail  to   thee.   Thane  of 
Cawdor  ! 

Third  Witch.    All   hail,   Macbeth,   that   shalt   be   king   here- 
after ! 

Banquo.    Good  sir,  why  do  you  start,  and  seem  to  fear 
Things  that  do  sound  so  fair  ?  —  F  the  name  of  truth, 
Are  ye  fantastical,*^  or  that  indeed 
Which  outwardly  ye  show  ?     My  noble  partner 
You  greet  with  present  grace  and  great  prediction 
Of  noble  having  *  and  of  royal  hope. 
That  he  seems  rapt  withal ;  ^  to  me  you  speak  not. 

1  The  witches  here  join  hands,  and  dance  round  and  round  in  a  circle. 

2  The  witches  of  Shakespeare's  day  were  supposed  to  have  beards.  In 
The  Merry  WivQs  of  Windsor,  Sir  Hugh,  the  Welsh  parson,  says,  **  I  think 
the  'oman  is  a  witch  indeed.     I  like  not  when  a  'oman  has  a  great  peard." 

3  **  That  is,  creatures  of  fantasy  or  imagination  "  (Johnson). 

4  Possession. 

5  "  Rapt  withal,"  i.e.,  carried  away  with  it,  as  in  ecstasy. 


20  !^HAKESPEARE.  [act  i. 

If  you  can  look  into  the  seeds  of  time, 
And  say  which  grain  will  grow  and  which  will  not, 
Speak  then  to  me,  who  neither  beg  nor  fear 
Your  favors  nor  your  hate. 

First  Witch.    Hail  ! 

Second  Witch.    Hail  ! 

Third  Witch.    Hail  ! 

First  Witch.    Lesser  ^  than  Macbeth,  and  greater. 

Second  Witch.    Not  so  happy,  yet  much  happier. 

Third  Witch.    Thou  shalt  get  kings,  though  thou  be  none : 
So  all  hail,  Macbeth  and  Banquo  ! 

First  Witch.    Banquo  and  Macbeth,  all  hail ! 

Macbeth.    Stay,  you  imperfect  speakers,  tell  me  more. 
By  SinePs  death  I  know  I  am  Thane  of  Glamis ; 
But  how  of  Cawdor  ?     The  Thane  of  Cawdor  hves, 
A  prosperous  gentleman ;  and  to  be  king 
Stands  not  within  the  prospect  of  belief. 
No  more  than  to  be  Cawdor.     Say  from  whence 
You  owe  2  this  strange  inteUigence ;  or  why 
Upon  this  blasted  heath  you  stop  our  way 
With  such  prophetic  greeting.     Speak,  I  charge  you. 

[  Witches  vanish. 

Banquo.    The  earth  hath  bubbles,  as  the  water  has, 
And  these  are  of  them.     Whither  are  they  vanish'd  ? 

Macbeth.    Into  the  air ;  and  what  seem'd  corporal  melted 
As  breath  into  the  wind.     Would  they  had  stayed  ! 

Banquo.    Were  such  things  here  as  we  do  speak  about  ? 
Or  have  we  eaten  on  the  insane  root  ^ 
That  takes  the  reason  prisoner  ? 

1  Double  comparatives  and  superlatives  are  often  met  with  in  Elizabethan 
writers. 

2  Own ;  have. 

3  **  Insane  root,"  i.e.,  the  root  which  causes  insanity.  Shakespeare 
probably  alludes  to  the  hemlock.  From  Greene's  Never  too  Late  (i6i6), 
Steevens  quotes  :  "  You  have  eaten  of  the  roots  of  hemlock,  that  makes 
men's  eyes  conceit  unseen  objects." 


SCENE  III.]  MACBETH,  21 

Macbeth.  Your  children  shall  be  kings. 
Banquo.  You  shall  be  king. 

Macbeth.  And  Thane  of  Cawdor  too  ;  went  it  not  so  ? 

Banquo.  To  the  selfsame  tune  and  words. — Who's  here? 

Enter  Ross  and  Angus. 

Ross.    The  King  hath  happily  receiv'd,  Macbeth, 
The  news  of  thy  success ;  and  when  he  reads 
Thy  personal  venture  in  the  rebels'  fight, 
His  wonders  and  his  praises  do  contend 
Which  should  be  thine  or  his.     Silenc'd  with  that,i 
In  viewing  o'er  the  rest  o'  the  selfsame  day, 
He  finds  thee  in  the  stout  Norweyan  ranks, 
Nothing  afeard  of  what  thyself  didst  make. 
Strange  images  of  death.     As  thick  as  tale  ^ 
Came  post  with  post ;  and  every  one  did  bear 
Thy  praises  in  his  kingdom's  great  defense. 
And  pour'd  them  down  before  him. 

Angus.  We  are  sent 

To  give  thee  from  our  royal  master  thanks ; 
Only  to  herald  thee  into  his  sight. 
Not  pay  thee. 

Ross.    And,  for  an  earnest  of  a  gi'eater  honor. 
He  bade  me,  from  him,  call  thee  Thane  of  Cawdor; 
In  which  addition, ^  hail,  most  worthy  thane  ! 
For  it  is  thine. 

Banquo.  What,  can  the  devil  speak  true  ? 

Macbeth.    The  Thane  of  Cawdor  hves ;  why  do  you  dress  me 
In  borrow'd  robes  ? 

Angus.  Who  was  the  thane  lives  yet, 

^  "  Silenc'd  with  that,"  i.e.,  silenced  with  wonder.     **  Wrapped  in  silent 
wonder  at  the  deeds  performed  by  Macbeth  "  is  Malone's  explanation. 

2  **  As  thick  as  tale,"  i.e.,  as  fast  as  they  could  be  told. 

3  Title. 


2  2  SHAKESPEARE.  [act  i. 

But  under  heavy  judgment  bears  that  life 

Which  he  deserves  to  lose.     Whether  he  was  combin'd 

With  those  of  Norway,  or  did  line  ^  the  rebel 

With  hidden  help  and  vantage,  or  that  with  both 

He  labor'd  in  his  country's  wreck,  I  know  not ; 

But  treasons  capital,  confess'd  and  prov'd. 

Have  overthrown  him. 

Macbeth.  \Aside\  Glamis,  and  Thane  of  Cawdor  ! 

The  greatest  is  behind.     \To  Ross  and  Angus]  Thanks  for  your 

pains. 
[To  Banquo\  Do  you  not  hope  your  children  shall  be  kings. 
When  those  that  gave  the  Thane  of  Cawdor  to  me 
Promis'd  no  less  to  them  ? 

Banqiio.  That,  trusted  home,^ 

Might  yet  enkindle  you  unto  ^  the  crown, 
Besides  the  Thane  of  Cawdor.     But  'tis  strange ; 
And  oftentimes,  to  win  us  to  our  harm. 
The  instruments  of  darkness  tell  us  truths, 
Win  us  with  honest  ^  trifles,  to  betray's 
In  deepest  consequence. — 
Cousins,  a  word,  I  pray  you. 

Macbeth.  [Aside]  Two  truths  are  told, 

As  happy  prologues  to  the  swelling  act 
Of  the  imperial  theme.  —  I  thank  you,  gentlemen. 
[Aside]  This  supernatural  soliciting  ^ 
Cannot  be  ill,  cannot  be  good.     If  ill. 
Why  hath  it  given  me  earnest  of  success. 
Commencing  in  a  truth  ?     I  am  Thane  of  Cawdor. 
If  good,  why  do  I  yield  to  that  suggestion 
Whose  horrid  image  doth  unfix  my  hair. 
And  make  my  seated  heart  knock  at  my  ribs, 

1  Sustain. 

2  "  Trusted  home,"  i.e.,  trusted  to  the  fullest  extent. 

3  "  Enkindle  you  unto,"  i.e.,  incite  you  to  hope  for. 
*  Truthful.  5  Incitement. 


SCENE  III.]  MACBETH,  23 

Against  the  use  of  nature  ?     Present  fears 

Are  less  than  horrible  imaginings ; 

My  thought,  whose  murder  yet  is  but  fantastical,^ 

Shakes  so  my  single  2  state  of  man  that  function 

Is  smothered  in  surmise,  and  nothing  is 

But  what  is  not.^ 

Banquo.  Look  how  our  partner's  rapt. 

Macbeth.    [Aside]    If  chance  will  have  me  king,  why,  chance 
may  crown  me 
Without  my  stir. 

Ba7iquo,  New  honors  come  upon  him. 

Like  our  strange  garments,  cleave  not  to  their  mold 
But  with  the  aid  of  use. 

Macbeth.  [Aside]    Come  what  come  may. 

Time  and  the  hour  runs  through  the  roughest  day. 

Banquo.    Worthy  Macbeth,  we  stay  upon  your  leisure. 

Macbeth.    Give  me  your  favor ;  my  dull  brain  was  wrought 
With  things  forgotten.     Kind  gentlemen,  your  pains 
Are  register'd  where  every  day  I  turn 
The  leaf  to  read  them.     Let  us  towards  the  King.  — 
Think  upon  what  hath  chanced,  and,  at  more  time. 
The  interim  having  weigh'd  it,^  let  us  speak 
Our  free  hearts  each  to  other. 

Banquo.  Very  gladly. 

Macbeth.    Till  then,  enough.  —  Come,  friends.  [Exeunt. 

1  "  Is  but  fantastical,"  i.e.,  is  as  yet  imagined  only. 

2  Individual. 

3  **  That  function  is,"  etc.  This  passage  Dr.  Johnson  paraphrases  :  **  All 
powers  of  action  are  oppressed  and  crushed  by  one  overwhelming  image  in 
the  mind,  and  nothing  is  present  to  me  but  that  which  is  really  future.  Of 
things  now  about  me  I  have  no  perception,  being  intent  wholly  on  that  which 
has  yet  no  existence." 

*  **  The  interim  having  weigh'd  it,"  i.e.,  having  considered  it  in  the  inter- 
val. 


24  SHAKESPEARE.  [act  i. 

Scene  IV.     Forres.      The  Palace, 

Flourish.     Enter  Duncan,  Malcolm,  Donalbain,  Lennox,  and  Attend- 
ants. 

Duncan.    Is  execution  done  on  Cawdor  ?      Are  not 
Those  in  commission  ^  yet  return'd  ? 

Malcolm.  My  liege, 

They  are  not  yet  come  back.     But  I  have  spoke ^ 
With  one  that  saw  him  die ;  who  did  report 
That  very  frankly  he  confess'd  his  treasons, 
Implor'd  your  highness'  pardon,  and  set  forth 
A  deep  repentance.     Nothing  in  his  life 
Became  him  like  the  leaving  it ;  he  died 
As  one  that  had  been  studied  in  his  death 
To  throw  away  the  dearest  thing  he  owed  ^ 
As  'twere  a  careless  trifle. 

Duncan.  There's  no  art 

To  find  the  mind's  construction  in  the  face ; 
He  was  a  gentleman  on  whom  I  built 
An  absolute  trust. — 

Enter  Macbeth,  Banquo,  Ross,  and  Angus. 

O  worthiest  cousin  ! 
The  sin  of  my  ingratitude  even  now 
Was  heavy  on  me.     Thou  art  so  far  before, 
That  swiftest  wing  of  recompense  is  slow 
To  overtake  thee.     Would  thou  hadst  less  deserv'd^ 
That  the  proportion  both  of  thanks  and  payment 
Might  have  been  mine  !  only  I  have  left  to  say. 
More  is  thy  due  than  more  than  all  can  pay. 
Macbeth.    The  service  and  the  loyalty  I  owe, 

1  **  Those  in  commission,"  i.e.,  those  to  whom  the  business  of  the  execu- 
tion was  committed. 

2  Participles  thus  curtailed  are  frequent  in  Shakespeare. 

3  Owned. 


SCENE  IV.]  MACBETH,  2£ 

In  doing  it,  pays  itself.     Your  highness'  part 

Is  to  receive  our  duties ;  and  our  duties 

Are  to  your  throne  and  state",  children  and  servants ; 

Which  do  but  what  they  should,  by  doing  everything 

Safe  towards  ^  your  love  and  honor. 

Duncan.  Welcome  hither! 

I  have  begun  to  plant  thee,  and  will  labor 
To  make  thee  full  of  growing.  —  Noble  Banquo, 
That  hast  no  less  deserv'd,  nor  must  be  known 
No  less  to  have  done  so,  let  me  infold  thee 
And  hold  thee  to  my  heart. 

Banquo.  There  if  I  grow, 

The  harvest  is  your  own. 

Duncan.  My  plenteous  joys. 

Wanton  in  fullness,  seek  to  hide  themselves 
In  drops  of  sorrow.  —  Sons,  kinsmen,  thanes. 
And  you  whose  places  are  the  nearest,  know 
We  will  establish  our  estate  upon 
Our  eldest,  Malcolm,  whom  we  name  hereafter 
The  Prince  of  Cumberland  ;2  which  honor  must 
Not  unaccompanied  invest  him  only. 
But  signs  of  nobleness,  like  stars,  shall  shine 
On  all  deservers.     From  hence  to  Inverness, 
And  bind  us  further  to  you. 

Macbeth.    The  rest  is  labor,  which  is  not  us'd  for  you :' 
I'll  be  myself  the  harbinger,^  and  make  joyful 
The  hearing  of  my  wife  with  yoiu*  approach. 
So  humbly  take  my  leave. 

1  **  Safe  towards,"  i.e.,  with  a  sure  regard  to. 

2  By  giving  to  Malcolm  the  title  of  the  Prince  of  Cumberland,  Ouncan 
indicated  that  this  son  was  to  succeed  him  upon  the  throne. 

3  **  The  rest,"  etc.,  i.e.,  when  not  in  your  service,  rest  itself  is  labor. 

*  Forerunner ;  here  used  in  the  original  sense  of  an  officer  of  the  royal 
household,  whose  duty  it  was  to  ride  in  advance  of  the  king  and  t'ic  royal 
party,  and  engage  lodgings  for  them  in  any  place  where  they  were  to  stop- 


26  SHAKESPEARE.  [act  i. 

Duncan.  My  worthy  Cawdor  ! 

Macbeth,    \Aside\  The  Prince  of  Cumberland  !  that  is  a  step 
On  which  I  must  fall  down,  or  else  o'erleap, 
For  in  my  way  it  lies.  —  Stars,  hide  your  fires ; 
Let  not  light  see  my  black  and  deep  desires ; 
The  eye  wink  at  the  hand  ;  yet  let  that  be,i 
Which  the  eye  fears,  when  it  is  done,  to  see.  \Exit. 

Duncan.    True,  worthy  Banquo ;  he  is  full  so  valiant, 
And  in  his  commendations  I  am  fed ; 
It  is  a  banquet  to  me.     Let's  after  him, 
Whose  care  is  gone  before  to  bid  us  welcome ; 
It  is  a  peerless  kinsman.  [Flourish.     Exeunt. 

Scene  V.     Inverness.     Macbeth^ s  Castle, 

Enter  Lady  Macbeth,  reading  a  letter. 

Lady  Macbeth.  ^^They  inet  7ne  in  the  day  of  success  ;  and  I  have 
learned^  by  the  perfectest  report,  they  have  more  in  them  thaft  mortal 
knowledge.  When  I  burned  in  desire  to  question  them  further,  they  made 
themselves  air,  into  which  they  vanished.  Whiles  I  stood  rapt  in  the 
wonder  of  it,  came  missives'^ from  the  King,  who  all-hailed  me  ''Thane 
of  Cawdor,^  by  which  title,  before,  these  weird  sisters  saluted  me,  and 
referred  7ne  to  the  coming  on  of  time  with  ^Hail,  king  that  shall  be  I ' 
This  have  I  thought  good  to  deliver  thee,  my  dearest  partjter  of  great- 
ness, that  thou  mightst  not  lose  the  dues  of  rejoicing  by  being  ignorant 
of  what  greatness  is  promised  thee.     Lay  it  to  thy  heart,  and  farewell. " 

Glamis  thou  art,  and  Cawdor ;  and  shalt  be 

What  thou  art  promis'd.     Yet  do  I  fear  thy  nature ; 

It  is  too  full  o'  the  milk  of  human  kindness 

To  catch  the  nearest  way.     Thou  wouldst  be  great ; 

Art  not  without  ambition,  but  without 

The  illness  ^  should  attend  it ;  what  thou  wouldst  highly, 

That  wouldst  thou  holily ;  wouldst  not  play  false. 

And  yet  wouldst  wrongly  win.     Thou*dst  have,  great  Glamis, 

1  Take  place.  2  Messengers.  8  Wickedness. 


SCENE  V.J  MACBETH,  27 

That  which  cries,  "Thus  thou  must  do,  if  thou  have  it;" 
And  that  which  rather  thou  dost  fear  to  do. 
Than  wishest  should  be  undone.     Hie  thee  hither, 
That  I  may  pour  my  spirits  in  thine  ear, 
And  chas'tise  with  the  valor  of  my  tongue 
All  that  impedes  thee  from  the  golden  round 
Which  fate  and  metaphysical  1  aid  doth  seem 
To  have  thee  crown'd  withal. — 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

What  is  your  tidings  ? 

Messenger,    The  King  comes  here  to-night. 

Lady  Macbeth.  Thou'rt  mad  to  say  it : 

Is  not  thy  master  with  him  ?  who,  were't  so. 
Would  have  inform'd  for  preparation. 

Messenger,    So  please  you,  it  is  true ;  our  Thane  is  coming. 
One  of  my  fellows  had  the  speed  of  him. 
Who,  almost  dead  for  breath,  had  scarcely  more 
Than  would  make  up  his  message. 

Lady  Macbeth,  Give  him  tending ; 

He  brings  great  news. —  \Exit  Messenger, 

The  raven  himself  is  hoarse 
That  croaks  the  fatal  entrance  of  Duncan 
Under  my  battlements.  —  Come,  you  spirits 
That  tend  on  mortal  2  thoughts,  unsex  me  here, 
And  fill  me  from  the  crown  to  the  toe  topful 
Of  direst  cruelty  !  make  thick  my  blood ; 
Stop  up  the  access  and  passage  to  remorse,^ 
That  no  compunctious  visitings  of  nature 
Shake  my  fell  purpose,  nor  keep  peace  between 
The  effect  and  it !      Come  to  my  woman's  breasts, 
And  take  my  milk  for  gall,  you  murdering  ministers, 
Wherever  in  your  sightless  substances 
You  wait  on  Nature's  mischief  !  —  Come,  thick  night, 

1  Supernatural.  2  Deadly,  3  Compassion. 


28  SHAKESPEARE,  [act  i. 

And  pall  thee  in  the  dunnest  smoke  of  hell, 
That  my  keen  knife  see  not  the  wound  it  makes, 
Nor  heaven  peep  through  the  blanket  of  the  dark, 
To  cry  ^*  Hold,  hold  !  "  — 

Enter  Macbeth. 

Great  Glamis  !  worthy  Cawdor  ! 
Greater  than  both,  by  the  all-hail  hereafter  ! 
Thy  letters  have  transported  me  beyond 
This  ignorant  present,^  and  I  feel  now 
The  future  in  the  instant. 

Macbeth.  My  dearest  love, 

Duncan  comes  here  to-night. 

Lady  Macbeth.  And  when  goes  hence  ? 

Macbeth.    To-morrow,  —  as  he  purposes. 

Lady  Macbeth.  O,  never 

Shall  sun  that  morrow  see  ! 
Your  face,  my  thane,  is  as  a  book  where  men 
May  read  strange  matters.     To  beguile  the  time, 
Look  like  the  time ;  bear  welcome  in  your  eye. 
Your  hand,  your  tongue ;  look  like  the  innocent  flower, 
But  be  the  serpent  under't.     He  that's  coming 
Must  be  provided  for ;  and  you  shall  put 
This  night's  great  business  into  my  dispatch,^ 
Which  shall  to  all  our  nights  and  days  to  come 
Give  solely  sovereign  sway  and  masterdom. 

Macbeth.    We  will  speak  further. 

Lady  Macbeth.  Only  look  up  clear , 

To  alter  favor  ever  is  to  fear.^ 
Leave  all  the  rest  to  me.  [Exeunt. 

1  **  This  ignorant  present,"  i.e.,  this  present  which  knows  nothing  of  the 
future. 

2  Management. 

3  **  To  alter  favor,"  etc.,  i.e.,  to  change  countenance  indicates  fear  in  you, 
and  causes  it  in  others. 


SCENE  VI.]  MACBETH.  29 

Scene  VI.     Before  Macbeth^ s  Castle. 

Hautboys  and  torches.     Enter  Duncan,  Malcolm,  Donalbain,  Banquo, 
Lennox,  Macduff,  Ross,  Angus,  and  Attendants. 

Duncan.    This  castle  hath  a  pleasant  seat ;  the  air 
Nimbly  and  sweetly  recommends  itself 
Unto  our  gentle  senses. 

Banquo.  This  guest  of  summer, 

The  temple-haunting  martlet/  does  approve, 
By  his  lov'd  mansionry,  that  the  heaven's  breath 
Smells  wooingly  here ;  no  jutty,  frieze, 
Buttress,  nor  coign  ^  of  vantage,  but  this  bird 
Hath  made  his  pendent  bed  and  procreant  cradle : 
Where  they  most  breed  and  haunt,  I  have  observ'd, 
The  air  is  delicate. 

Enter  Lady  Macbeth. 

Duncan.  See,  see,  our  honor'd  hostess  !  — 

The  love  that  follows  us  sometime  ^  is  our  trouble. 
Which  still  we  thank  as  love.      Herein  I  teach  you 
How  you  shall  bid  God  'ild  us  ^  for  your  pains, 
And  thank  us  for  your  trouble. 

Lady  Macbeth.  All  our  service. 

In  every  point  twice  done  and  then  done  double, 
Were  poor  and  single^  business  to  contend 
Against  those  honors,  deep  and  broad,  wherewith 
Your  Majesty  loads  our  house.     For  those  of  old, 
And  the  late  dignities  heap'd  up  to  them. 
We  rest  your  hermits.^ 

1  Martin,  a  bird  of  the  swallow  kind.  Its  nest  of  mud  is  built  beneath  the 
eaves  and  sheltered  projections  of  lofty  buildings,  especially  in  the  well  pro- 
tected angles  of  the  cornices  an.d  gables  of  temples,  towers,  castles,  etc. 

2  Corner  or  angle.  3  Sometimes. 

*  *'  'Ild  us,"  a  contraction  of  "  yield  us,"  i.e.,  reward  us.         5  Weak. 
6  **  We  rest  your  hermits,"  i.e.,  "  we,  as  hermits  or  beadsmen,  will  always 
pray  for  you  "  (Steevens). 


30  SHAKESPEARE,  [act  i. 

Duncan.  Where's  the  Thane  of  Cawdor  ? 

We  cours'd  him  at  the  heels,  and  had  a  purpose 
To  be  his  purveyor ;  ^  but  he  rides  well, 
And  his  great  love,  sharp  as  his  spur,  hath  holp  '^  him 
To  his  home  before  us.     Fair  and  noble  hostess. 
We  are  your  guest  to-night. 

Lady  Macbeth.  Your  servants  ever 

Have  theirs,  themselves,  and  what  is  theirs,  in  compt,^ 
To  make  their  audit  at  your  highness'  pleasure, 
Still  to  return  your  own. 

Duncan.      ,  Give  me  your  hand ; 

Conduct  me  to  mine  host ;  we  love  him  highly. 
And  shall  continue  our  graces  towards  him. 
By  your  leave,  hcstess.  \Exeunt 

Scene  VII.     Macbeth's  Castle. 

Hautboys  and  torches.     Enter  a  Sewer, ^  and  divers  Servants  with  dishes  and 
service^  and  pass  over  the  stage.      Then  enter  Macbeth. 

Macbeth.    If  it  were  done  when  'tis  done,  then  'twere  well. 
It  were  done  quickly,  if  th'  assassination 
Could  trammel  up  the  consequence,  and  catch 
With  his  ^  surcease  ^  success  ;  that  but  this  blow 
Might  be  the  be-all  and  the  end-all  here. 
But  here,  upon  this  bank  and  shoal  of  time, 
We'd  jump  the  life  to  come."^     But  in  these  cases 
We  still  have  judgment  here,  that^  we  but  teach 

1  "To  be  his  purveyor,"  i.e.,  to  be  in  advance  of  him.  A  purveyor  is 
properly  one  sent  ahead  of  a  party  to  obtain  food  for  them. 

2  Helped.  3  **  in  compt,"  i.e.,  accountable. 

*  An  upper  servant  who  prepared  and  served  the  table ;  a  head  waiter. 

5  Its  :  '*  assassination  "  is  the  antecedent.  •  ^  Ending. 

'^  "  If  th'  assassination,"  etc.,  i.e.,  if  the  murder,  when  done,  could  insure 
complete  success  here  in  this  life,"  upon  this  bank  and  shoal  of  time,"  we 
would  risk  the  life  to  come. 

^  Since. 


SCENE  VII.]  MACBETH.  31 

Bloody  instructions,  which,  being  taught,  return 
To  plague  the  inventor.     This  even-handed  justice 
Commends  the  ingredients  of  our  poison'd  chaHce 
To  our  own  Hps.     He's  here  in  double  trust : 
First,  as  I  am  his  kinsman  and  his  subject. 
Strong  both  against  the  deed ;  then  as  his  host. 
Who  should  against  his  murderer  shut  the  door. 
Not  bear  the  knife  myself.     Besides,  this  Duncan 
Hath  borne  his  faculties  so  meek,  hath  been 
So  clear  in  his  great  office,  that  his  virtues 
Will  plead  like  angels,  trumpet-tongu'd,  against 
The  deep  damnation  of  his  taking  off ; 
And  pity,  like  a  naked  newborn  babe. 
Striding  the  blast,  or  heaven's  cherubim,^  hors'd 
Upon  the  sightless  couriers  of  the  air,^ 
Shall  blow  the  horrid  deed  in  every  eye. 
That  tears  shall  drown  the  wind.     I  have  no  spur 
To  prick  the  sides  of  my  intent,  but  only 
Vaulting  ambition,  which  o'erleaps  itself 
And  falls  on  th'  other — 

Enter  Lady  Macbeth. 

How  now  !  what  news  ? 
Lady  Macbeth.    He  has  almost  supp'd.     Why  have  you  left 

the  chamber  ? 
Macbeth.    Hath  he  ask'd  for  me  ? 

Lady  Macbeth.  Know  you  not  he  has  ? 

Macbeth.    We  will  proceed  no  further  in  this  business. 
He  hath  honor'd  me  of  late,  and  I  have  bought^ 
Golden  opinions  from  all  sorts  of  people, 

1  "  A  naked  newborn  babe,"  etc.  "  Either  like  a  mortal  babe,  terrible 
in  helplessness,  or  like  heaven's  child  angels,  mighty  in  love  and  compas- 
sion "  (Rev.  C.  E.  Moberly). 

2  "  Sightless  couriers  of  the  air,"  i.e.,  the  invisible  winds. 

3  Gained, 


32  SHAKESPEARE.  [act  h 

Which  would  ^  be  worn  now  in  their  newest  gloss, 
Not  cast  aside  so  soon. 

Lady  Macbeth,  Was  the  hope  drunk 

Wherein  you  dress' d  yourself  ?  hath  it  slept  since  ? 
And  wakes  it  now,  to  look  so  green  and  pale 
At  what  it  did  so  freely  ?     From  this  time 
Such  I  account  thy  love.     Art  thou  afeard 
To  be  the  same  in  thine  own  act  and  valor 
As  thou  art  in  desire  ?     Wouldst  thou  have  that 
Which  thou  esteem'st  the  ornament  of  life. 
And  live  a  coward  in  thine  own  esteem, 
Letting  "  I  dare  not "  wait  upon  "  I  would," 
Like  the  poor  cat  i'  the  adage  ?  2 

Macbeth.  Prithee,  peace. 

I  dare  do  all  that  may  become  a  man ; 
Who  dares  do  more  is  none. 

Lady  Macbeth.  What  beast  was't,  then, 

That  made  you  break  this  enterprise  to  me  ? 
When  you  durst  do  it,  then  you  were  a  man ; 
And,  to  be  more  than  what  you  were,  you  would 
Be  so  much  more  the  man.     Nor  time  nor  place 
Did  then  adhere,^  and  yet  you  would  make  both ; 
They  have  made  themselves,  and  that  their  fitness  now 
Does  unmake  you. 

Macbeth.  If  we  should  fail,  — 

Lady  Macbeth.  We  fail! 

But  screw  your  courage  to  the  sticking  place,^ 
And  we'll  not  fail.     When  Duncan  is  asleep, — 

1  Should. 

2  "Letting  'I  dare  not,'"  etc.  Bos  well  (as  quoted  by  Furness)  notes 
that  "  the  adage  *  The  cate  would  eate  fish,  and  would  not  wete  her  feete,'  is 
among  Heywood's  Proverbs  (1566)." 

3  Accord. 

4  "  But  screw,"  etc.  Probably  a  metaphor  from  the  tuning  of  a  stringed 
instrument. 


SCENE  vii.]  MACBETH,  33 

Whereto  the  rather  shall  his  day's  hard  journey 
Soundly  invite  him, — his  two  chamberlains 
Will  I  with  wine  and  wassail  so  convince/ 
That  memory,  the  warder  of  the  brain, 
Shall  be  a  fume,  and  the  receipt  2  of  reason 
A  limbeck  ^  only.     When  in  swinish  sleep 
Their  drenched  natures  lie,  as  in  a  death, 
What  cannot  you  and  I  perform  upon 
The  unguarded  Duncan  ?  what  not  put  upon 
His  spongy  officers,  who  shall  bear  the  guilt 
Of  our  great  quell  ?  ^ 

Macbeth.  Bring  forth  men  children  only ; 

For  thy  undaunted  mettle  should  compose 
Nothing  but  males.     Will  it  not  be  receiv'd,^ 
When  we  have  mark'd  with  blood  those  sleepy  two 
Of  his  own  chamber,  and  us'd  their  very  daggers. 
That  they  have  done't  ? 

Lady  Macbeth,  Who  dares  receive  it  other, 

As  we  shall  make  our  griefs  and  clamor  roar 
Upon  his  death  ? 

Macbeth.  I  am  settled,  and  bend  up 

Each  corporal  agent  ^  to  this  terrible  feat. 
Away,  and  mock  the  time  with  fairest  show ; 
False  face  must  hide  what  the  false  heart  doth  know.      \Exeunt, 

1  "  With  wine  and  wassail  so  convince,"  i.e.,  with  drink  and  carousing  so 
overcome. 

2  Receptacle. 

3  An  alembic ;  a  still,  or  rather  the  cap  of  a  still. 

4  Murder.  5  Believed. 

^  "  Each  corporal  agent,"  i.e.,  every  faculty  of  the  body. 


34  SHAKESPEARE,  [act  ii. 


ACT   II. 

Scene  I.      Court  of  Macbeth' s  Castle, 
Enter  Banquo,  and  Fleance  bearing  a  torch  before  him. 

Banquo,    How  goes  the  night,  boy  ? 

Fleance,    The  moon  is  down  ;  I  have  not  heard  the  clock. 

Banquo.    And  she  goes  down  at  twelve. 

Fleance,  I  take't,  'tis  later,  sin 

Banquo,  Hold  ;  take  my  sword. — There's  husbandry  i  in  heaven ; 
Their  candles  are  all  out.  —  Take  thee  that,  too. 
A  heavy  summons  lies  hke  lead  upon  me,^ 
And  yet  I  would  not  sleep.  —  Merciful  Powers, 
Restrain  in  me  the  cursed  thoughts  that  nature 
Gives  way  to  in  repose  !  — 

Enter  Macbeth,  and  a  Servant  with  a  torch. 

Give  me  my  sword. — 
Who's  there  ? 

Macbeth,    A  friend. 

Banqiw,    What,  sir,  not  yet  at  rest  ?    The  king's  abed — 
He  hath  been  in  unusual  pleasure,  and 
Sent  forth  great  largess  ^  to  your  offices.^ 
This  diamond  he  greets  your  wife  withal. 
By  the  name  of  most  kind  hostess — and  shut  up 
In  measureless  content.^ 

Macbeth,  Being  unprepar'd, 

1  Thrift. 

2  '*  A  heavy  summons,"  etc.,  i.e.,  a  strong  disposition  to  sleep  is  upon  me. 

3  Gifts  of  money.  4  The  servants'  departments. 

5  "  Shut  up  in  measureless  content,"  i.e.,  retiring  to  sleep  most  happy,  and 
contented  with  everything  around  him» 


SCENE  I.]  MACBETH,  35 

Our  will  became  the  servant  to  defect, 
Which  else  should  free  have  wrought.^ 

Banquo.  All's  well. 

I  dreamt  last  night  of  the  three  weird  sisters ; 
To  you  they  have  show'd  some  truth. 

Macbeth,  I  think  not  of  them. 

Yet,  when  we  can  entreat  an  hour  to  serve, 
We  would  spend  it  in  some  words  upon  that  business, 
If  you  would  grant  the  time. 

Banquo.  At  your  kind'st  leisure. 

Macbeth.    If  you  shall  cleave  to  my  consent,  when  'tis,^ 
It  shall  make  honor  for  you. 

Banquo.  So  I  lose  none 

In  seeking  to  augment  it,  but  still  keep 
My  bosom  franchis'd  and  allegiance  clear, 
I  shall  be  counsel'd. 

Macbeth.  Good  repose  the  while  ! 

Banquo.    Thanks,  sir ;  the  Hke  to  you  ! 

[Exeunt  Banquo  and  Fleance. 

Macbeth.    Go  bid  thy  mistress,  when  my  drink  is  ready, 
She  strike  upon  the  bell.     Get  thee  to  bed. —         \Exit  Servant, 
Is  this  a  dagger  which  I  see  before  me. 
The  handle  towards  my  hand?  —  Come,  let  me  clutch  thee. 
I  have  thee  not,  and  yet  I  see  thee  still. 
Art  thou  not,  fatal  vision,  sensible 
To  feeling  as  to  sight  ?  or  art  thou  but 
A  dagger  of  the  mind,  a  false  creation. 
Proceeding  from  the  heat-oppressed  brain  ? 
I  see  thee  yet,  in  form  as  palpable 
As  this  which  now  I  draw. 
Thou  marshal'st  me  the  way  that  I  was  going ; 
And  such  an  instrument  I  was  to  use. — 

1  "  Being  unprepar'd,"  etc.,  i.e.,  lack  of  time  for  preparation  constrained 
the  free  working  of  my  will. 

2  **  Cleave  to  my  consent,"  i.e.,  join  my  party  when  it  is  established. 


36  SHAKESPEARE.  [act  ii. 

Mine  eyes  are  made  the  fools  o*  the  other  senses, 

Or  else  worth  all  the  rest ;  —  I  see  thee  still, 

And  on  thy  blade  and  dudgeon  ^  gouts  ^  of  blood, 

Which  was  not  so  before.  —  There's  no  such  thing ; 

It  is  the  bloody  business  which  informs  ^ 

Thus  to  mine  eyes.     Now  o'er  the  one  half  world 

Nature  seems  dead,  and  wicked  dreams  abuse 

The  curtain'd  sleep ;  witchcraft  celebrates 

Pale  Hecate's^  offerings,  and  wither'd  murder, 

Alarum'd  ^  by  his  sentinel,  the  wolf, 

Whose  howl's  his  watch,^  thus  with  his  stealthy  pace, 

With  Tarquin's  ravishing  strides,"^  towards  his  design 

Moves  like  a  ghost.  —  Thou  sure  and  firm-set  earth, 

Hear  not  my  steps,  which  way  they  walk,  for  fear 

Thy  very  stones  prate  of  my  whereabout, 

And  take  the  present  horror  from  the  time. 

Which  now  suits  with  it.     Whiles  I  threat,  he  hves ; 

Words  to  the  heat  of  deeds  too  cool  breath  gives.^ 

\A  bell  rings. 
I  go,  and  it  is  done ;  the  bell  invites  me.  — 
Hear  it  not,  Duncan ;  for  it  is  a  knell 
That  summons  thee  to  heaven  or  to  hell.  \Exit. 

1  Handle.  2  Drops.  ^  Creates  forms. 

4  Hecate,  according  to  classic  mythology  the  wife  of  Pluto  and  Queen  of  the 
infernal  regions,  was  supposed  to  preside  over  witchcraft  and  enchantments, 
and  to  control  the  incantations  of  evil  spirits.  Dogs,  lambs,  and  honey  were 
generally  offered  to  her.  The  word  is  dissyllabic  here  i^Hec'ate),  as  it  always 
is  in  Shakespeare's  verse. 

5  Aroused.  6  Watchword. 

7  '*  Tarquin's  ravishing  strides,"  alluding  to  Sextus  Tarquinius,  by  whom 
Lucretia,  the  Roman  matron,  was  dishonored. 

8  Singular  in  form  for  the  sake  of  the  rhyme,  though  having. a  plural  sub- 
ject. The  singular  noun  "breath,"  just  preceding  the  verb,  makes  the 
violation  of  a  grammatical  rule  less  noticeable. 


SCENE  II.]  MACBETH.  2>"l 

Scene  II.     The  Same, 
Enter  Lady  Macbeth. 

Lady  Macbeth,    That  which  hath  made  them  drunk  hath  made 
me  bold ; 
What  hath  quench'd  them  hath  given  me  fire.  —  Hark  !     Peace  !  — 
It  was  the  owl  that  shriek'd,  the  fatal  bellman, 
Which  gives  the  stern'st  good  night.^     He  is  about  it ; 
The  doors  are  open,  and  the  surfeited  grooms 
Do  mock  their  charge  with  snores ;  I  have  drugg'd  their  possets, 
That  death  and  nature  do  contend  about  them, 
Whether  they  live  or  die. 

Macbeth,    [  Within\  Who's  there  ?  what,  ho  ! 

Lady  Macbeth.    Alack!   I  am  afraid  they  have  awak'd, 
And  'tis  not  done.     The  attempt  and  not  the  deed 
Confounds  us.     Hark  !  I  laid  their  daggers  ready ; 
He  could  not  miss  'em.     Had  he  not  resembled 
My  father  as  he  slept,  I  had  done't.  — 

Enter  Macbeth. 

My  husband  ! 

Macbeth.    I  have  done  the  deed.    Didst  thou  not  hear  a  noise  ? 

Lady  Macbeth.    I  heard  the  owl  scream  and  the  crickets  cry. 
Did  not  you  speak  ? 

Macbeth.  When  ? 

Lady  Macbeth.  Now. 

Macbeth.  As  I  descended  ? 

Lady  Macbeth.    Ay. 

Macbeth.    Hark  ! 
Who  lies  i'  the  second  chamber  ? 

Lady  Macbeth.  Donalbain. 

Macbeth.    This  is  a  sorry  sight.  [Looking  on  his  hands. 

1  The  hooting  of  the  owl  is  even  now  heard  by  many  persons  with  super- 
stitious dread,  as  an  ominous  cry. 


38  SHAKESPEARE.  [act  ii. 

Lady  Macbeth,    A  foolish  thought,  to  say  a  sorry  sight. 

Macbeth.    There's  one  did   laugh  in's  sleep,   and  one  cried 
''  Murder  ! " 
That  they  did  wake  each  other ;  I  stood  and  heard  them ; 
But  they  did  say  their  prayers,  and  address'd  ^  them 
Again  to  sleep. 

Lady  Macbeth,    There  are  two  lodg'd  together. 

Macbeth.    One  cried  ''  God  bless  us  !  "  and  "Amen  ! "  the  olher, 
As  2  they  had  seen  me  with  these  hangman's  hands, 
Listening  their  fear.     I  could  not  say  "  Amen !  " 
When  they  did  say  "  God  bless  us  ! " 

Lady  Macbeth.     Consider  it  not  so  deeply. 

Macbeth.    But  wherefore  could  not  I  pronounce  "Amen"? 
I  had  most  need  of  blessing,  and  "Amen  " 
Stuck  in  my  throat. 

Lady  Macbeth.         These  deeds  must  not  be  thought 
After  these  ways ;  so,  it  will  make  us  mad. 

Macbeth.    Methought  I  heard  a  voice  cry,  "  Sleep  no  more  ! 
Macbeth  does  murder  sleep,"  —  the  innocent  sleep, 
Sleep  that  knits  up  the  ravel'd  ^  sleave  ^  of  care, 
The  death  of  each  day's  hfe,  sore  labor's  bath, 
Balm  of  hurt  minds,  great  Nature's  second  course,^ 
Chief  nourisher  in  life's  feast,  — 

Lady  Macbeth.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Macbeth.    Still  it  cried,  "  Sleep  no  more  ! "  to  all  the  house ; 
"  Glamis  hath  murder'd  sleep,  and  therefore  Cawdor 
Shall  sleep  no  more ;  Macbeth  shall  sleep  no  more." 

Lady  Macbeth,    Who  was  it  that  thus  cried  ?     Why,  worthy 
thane, 
You  do  unbend  your  noble  strength  to  think 
So  brainsickly  of  things.     Go  get  some  water, 
And  wash  this  filthy  witness  from  your  hand. 
Why  did  you  bring  these  daggers  from  the  place  ? 

1  Prepared.  2  As  if.  3  Tangled.  *  Soft  floss  or  silk. 

5  *'  Second  course,"  i.e.,  the  chief  course  at  the  feast. 


SCENE  II.]  MACBETH.  39 

They  must  lie  there ;  go  carry  them,  and  smear 
The  sleepy  grooms  with  blood. 

Macbeth.  I'll  go  no  more ; 

I  am  afraid  to  think  what  I  have  done ; 
Look  on't  again  I  dare  not. 

Lady  Macbeth.  Infirm  of  pmpose  ! 

Give  me  the  daggers ;  the  sleeping  and  the  dead 
Are  but  as  pictures ;  'tis  the  eye  of  childhood 
That  fears  a  painted  devil.     If  he  do  bleed, 
I'll  gild  the  faces  of  the  grooms  withal ; 
For  it  must  seem  their  guilt.  \Exit.     Knocking  within, 

Macbeth.  Whence  is  that  knocking  ? 

How  is't  with  me,  when  every  noise  appals  me  ? 
What  hands  are  here  ?     Ha  !  they  pluck  out  mine  eyes. 
Will  all  great  Neptune's  ocean  ^  wash  this  blood 
Clean  from  my  hand  ?     No  ;  this  my  hand  will  rather 
The  multitudinous  seas  incarnadine, 
Making  the  green  one  red.^ 

Reenter  Lady  Macbeth. 

Lady  Macbeth.    My  hands  are  of  your  color,  but  I  shame 
To  wear  a  heart  so  white.    [Knocking  withifi.]    I  hear  a  knocking 
At  the  south  entry :  retire  we  to  our  chamber ; 
A  little  water  clears  us  of  this  deed ; 
How  easy  is  it,  then  !      Your  constancy 
Hath  left  you  unattended.^     [Knocking  within. \     Hark  !  more 

knocking. 
Get  on  your  nightgown,^  lest  occasion  call  us, 

1  The  ancient  mythologists  tell  us,  that,  when  Jupiter  assigned  to  each  of 
his  brothers  a  separate  portion  of  the  universe,  he  decreed  that  Neptune 
should  be  given  all  the  waters  upon  the  face  of  nature,  and  be  sole  monarch 
of  the  ocean. 

2  "  The  multitudinous  seas,"  etc.,  i.e.,  change  the  innumerable  waves  of 
the  ocean  to  a  carnation  hue,  making  its  natural  green  color  a  uniform  red. 

3  "  Your  constancy,"  etc.,  i.e.,  your  resolution  has  forsaken  you. 

4  Dressing  gown,  as  we  should  say.  • 


40  SHAKESPEARE.  [act  ii. 

And  show  us  to  be  watchers.     Be  not  lost 
So  poorly  in  your  thoughts. 

Macbeth,    To  know  my  deed,  'twere  best  not  know  myself. — 

[Knocking  withi?i. 
Wake  Duncan  with  thy  knocking  !   I  would  thou  couldst  ! 

[Exemit. 

Scene  III.     The  Same. 

Enter  a  Porter.     Knocking  within. 

Porter.  Here's  a  knocking  indeed  !  If  a  man  were  porter  of 
hell  gate,  he  should  have  old  turning  the  key.^  [Knocking  within. \ 
Knock,  knock,  knock  !  Who's  there,  i'  the  name  of  Beelzebub  ? 
—  Here's  a  farmer  that  hang'd  himself  on  the  expectation  of 
plenty.2 — Come  in  time;  have  napkins  enow^  about  you;  here 
you'll  sweat  for't.  —  [Knocking  within?^  Knock,  knock  !  Who's 
there,  in  the  other  devil's  name  ?  —  Faith,  here's  an  equivocator, 
that  could  swear  in  both  the  scales  against  either  scale ;  who  com- 
mitted treason  enough  for  God's  sake,  yet  could  not  equivocate  to 
heaven.  —  O,  come  in,  equivocator.  —  [Knocking  within.]  Knock, 
knock,  knock  !  Who's  there  ?  —  Faith,  here's  an  English  tailor 
come  hither  for  stealing  out  of  a  French  hose.^ — Come  in,  tailor ; 
here  you  may  roast  your  goose.^  —  [Knocking  within.]  Knock, 
knock !  never  at  quiet !  What  are  you  ?  —  But  this  place  is  too  cold 
for  hell.  I'll  devil-porter  it  no  further ;  I  had  thought  to  have  let 
in  some  of  all  professions  that  go  the  primrose  way  to  the  ever- 
lasting bonfire.  —  [Knocking  within.]  Anon,  anon  !  I  pray  you, 
remember  the  porter.  [Opens  the  gate, 

1  "  Have  old,"  etc.,  i.e.,  be  kept  busy  unlocking  the  door.  "  Old"  as  an 
intensive  frequently  occurs  in  Shakespeare. 

2  Because,  with  plentiful  crops,  prices  would  decline. 

3  **  Napkins  enow,"  i.e.,  pocket  handkerchiefs  enough. 

*  Trousers.  It  is  an  old  joke  against  tailors,  that  they  always  steal  from 
the  material  given  out  to  them. 

5  A  tailor's  smoothing  iron.  It  received  its  name  from  the  resemblance 
of  the  handle  to  the  neck  of  a  goose. 


SCENE  III.]  MACBETH.  41 

Enter  Macduff  and  Lennox. 

Macduff.    Was  it  so  late,  friend,  ere  you  went  to  bed, 
That  you  do  lie  so  late  ? 

Porter.    Faith,  sir,  we  were  carousing  till  the  second  cock.^ 

Macduff.    I  beheve  drink  gave  thee  the  lie  last  night. 

Porter.  That  it  did,  sir,  i'  the  very  throat  on  me  ;  but  I  requited 
him  for  his  lie;  and,  I  think,  being  too  strong  for  him,  though 
he  took  up  my  legs  sometime,  yet  I  made  a  shift  to  cast  ^  him. 

Macduff,    Is  thy  master  stirring  ? 

Enter  Macbeth. 

Our  knocking  has  awak'd  him ;  here  he  comes. 

Lennox.    Good  morrow,  noble  sir. 

Macbeth.  Good  morrow,  both. 

Macduff.    Is  the  King  stirring,  worthy  thane  ? 

Macbeth.  Not  yet. 

Macduff.    He  did  command  me  to  call  timely  on  him ; 
I  have  almost  slipped  the  hour. 

Macbeth.  I'll  bring  you  to  him. 

Macduff.    I  know  this  is  a  joyful  trouble  to  you ; 
But  yet  'tis  one. 

Macbeth.    The  labor  we  delight  in  physics  ^  pain. 
This  is  the  door. 

Macdiff.  I'll  make  so  bold  to  call, 

For  'tis  my  limited  service.^  \Exit. 

Lennox.    Goes  the  King  hence  to-day  ? 

Macbeth.  He  does ; — he  did  appoint  so. 

Lennox.    The  night  has  been  unruly :  where  we  lay, 
Our  chimneys  were  blown  down ;  and,  as  they  say, 
Lamentings  heard  i'  the  air,  —  strange  screams  of  death, 
And  prophesying,  with  accents  terrible, 

1  "  Till  the  second  cock,"  i.e.,  till  the  cock  crew  the  second  time. 

2  Overthrow.  3  Relieves. 

4  *'  My  limited  service,"  i.e.,  service  specially  assigned  to  me. 


42  SHAKESPEARE,  [act  ii. 

Of  dire  combustion  and  confus'd  events 
New  hatch'd  to  the  woeful  time.     The  ob'scure  bird  i 
Clamor'd  the  Hvelong  night.     Some  say  the  Earth 
Was  feverous  and  did  shake. 

Macbeth.  'Twas  a  rough  night. 

Lennox.    My  young  remembrance  cannot  parallel 
A  fellow  to  it. 

Reenter  Macduff. 

Macduff.    O  horror,  horror,  horror  !      Tongue  nor  heart 

Cannot  conceive  nor  name  thee  ! 

Macbeth.  \  ,,^,     ,     , 

r  \  What's  the  matter  ? 

Lennox.    )  . 

Macduff.    Confusion  2  now  hath  made  his  masterpiece  ! 

Most  sacrilegious  murder  hath  broke  ope 

The  Lord's  anointed  temple,  and  stole  thence 

The  life  o'  the  building  ! 

Macbeth.  What  is't  you  say  ?  the  life  ? 

Le?t?iox.    Mean  you  his  Majesty  ? 

.  Macduff.    Approach  the  chamber,  and  destroy  your  sight 

With  a  new  Gorgon.^     Do  not  bid  me  speak ; 

See,  and  then  speak  yourselves. 

[Exeunt  Macbeth  and  Lemiox. 

Awake,  awake  ! 

Ring  the  alarum  bell.  —  Murder  and  treason  !  — 

1  The  owl.  2  Destruction. 

3  It  is  fabled  that  there  were  three  Gorgons,  sisters,  of  whom  Medusa, 
the  youngest,  was  very  handsome.  Wishing  to  leave  her  home,  a  desolate 
land,  she  entreated  Minerva  to  let  her  go  and  visit  the  delightful  sunny 
south.  When  Minerva  refused  her  request,  she  reviled  the  goddess,  declar- 
ing that  nothing  but  her  conviction  that  mortals  would  no  longer  consider 
her  beautiful,  if  they  but  once  beheld  Medusa,  could  have  prompted  this 
denial.  This  remark  so  incensed  Minerva,  that,  to  punish  her  for  her  vanity, 
the  goddess  changed  Medusa's  beautiful  curling  locks  into  hissing,  writhing 
serpents,  and  decreed  that  one  glance  into  her  still  beautiful  face  would  suffice 
to  change  the  beholder  into  stone.  (See  Guerber's  Myths  of  Greece  and 
Romet  p.  242.) 


SCENE  III.]  MACBETH.  43 

Banquo  and  Donalbain  !   Malcolm!  awake! 

Shake  off  this  downy  sleep,  death's  counterfeit, 

And  look  on  death  itself  !      Up,  up,  and  see 

The  great  doom's  image  !  ^     Malcolm  !  Banquo  ! 

As  from  your  graves  rise  up,  and  walk  like  sprites, 

To  countenance  this  horror  !  2 — Ring  the  bell.  \Bell  rings. 

Enter  Lady  Macbeth. 

Lady  Macbeth,    What's  the  business, 
That  such  a  hideous  trumpet  calls  to  parley 
The  sleepers  of  the  house  1     Speak,  speak  ! 

Macduff.  O  gentle  lady, 

'Tis  not  for  you  to  hear  what  I  can  speak ; 
The  repetition,  in  a  woman's  ear. 
Would  murder  as  it  fell.  — 

Enter  Banquo. 

O  Banquo,  Banquo, 
Our  royal  master's  murder'd  ! 

Lady  Macbeth.  Woe,  alas  ! 

What !  in  our  house  ? 

Banquo.  Too  cruel  anywhere. — 

Dear  Duff,  I  prithee,  contradict  thyself, 
And  say  it  is  not  so. 

Reenter  Macbeth  and  Lennox,  with  Ross. 

Macbeth.    Had  I  but  died  an  hour  before  this  chance, 
I  had  liv'd  a  blessed  time ;  for,  from  this  instant 
There's  nothing  serious  in  mortality;^ 
All  is  but  toys ;  renown  and  grace  is  dead ; 
The  wine  of  life  is  drawn,  and  the  mere  lees  ^ 
Is  left  this  vault  to  brag  of. 

1  "  The  great  doom's  image,"  i.e.,  a  sight  as  terrible  as  the  last  judgment. 

2  "  Walk  like  sprites,"  etc.     Ghosts  are  the  only  proper  accompaniments 
to  this  horror. 

3  Human  life.  ■*  Dregs  of  the  cask. 


44  SHAKESPEARE.  [act  ii. 

Enter  Malcolm  and  Donalbain. 

Donalbain.    What  is  amiss  ? 

Macbeth.  You  are,  and  do  not  know't ; 

The  spring,  the  head,  the  fountain  of  your  blood 
Is  stopp'd,  —  the  very  source  of  it  is  stopp'd. 

Macduff.    Your  royal  father's  murder'd. 

Malcolm.  Oh  !  by  whom  ? 

Lennox.    Those  of  his  chamber,  as  it  seem'd,  had  done't : 
Their  hands  and  faces  were  all  badg'd  with  blood ; 
So  were  their  daggers,  which  unwip'd  we  found 
Upon  their  pillows. 

They  star'd  and  were  distracted ;  no  man*s  life 
Was  to  be  trusted  with  them. 

Macbeth.    O,  yet  I  do  repent  me  of  my  fury, 
That  I  did  kill  them. 

Macduff.  Wherefore  did  you  so  ? 

Macbeth.    Who  can  be  wise,  amaz'd,^  temperate  and  furious. 
Loyal  and  neutral,  in  a  moment  ?     No  man. 
The  expedition  ^  of  my  violent  love 
Outran  the  pauser,  reason.     Here  lay  Duncan, 
His  silver  skin  lac'd  with  his  golden  blood ; 
And  his  gash'd  stabs  look'd  like  a  breach  in  nature 
For  ruin*s  wasteful  entrance :  there,  the  murderers, 
Steep'd  in  the  colors  of  their  trade,  their  daggers 
Unmannerly  breech'd  with  gore.^     Who  could  refrain, 
That  had  a  heart  to  love,  and  in  that  heart 
Courage  to  make's  love  known  ? 

Lady  Macbeth.  Help  me  hence,  ho  ! 

Macdtff.    Look  to  the  lady. 

Malcolm.    [Aside  to  Donalbain]  Why  do  we  hold  our  tongues. 
That  most  may  claim  this  argument  for  ours  ?  * 

1  Bewildered.  2  Haste. 

3  **  Breech'd  with  gore,"  i.e.,  covered  with  blood. 

4  "  That  most  may  claim,"  etc.,  i.e.,  who  have  the  greatest  interest  in  the 


SCENE  III.]  MACBETH,  45 

Donalbain,    [Aside  to  Malcolm]  What  should  be  spoken  here, 
where  our  fate, 
Hid  in  an  auger  hole,  may  rush  and  seize  us  ? 
Let's  away ; 
Our  tears  are  not  yet  brew'd. 

Malcolm.     [Aside  to  Donalbain]    Nor  our  strong  sorrow 
Upon  the  foot  of  motion. 

Banquo,  Look  to  the  lady.  — 

\Lady  Macbeth  is  carried  out. 
And  when  we  have  our  naked  frailties  hid, 
That  suffer  in  exposure,^  let  us  meet, 
And  question  ^  this  most  bloody  piece  of  work, 
To  know  it  further.     Fears  and  scruples  shake  us. 
In  the  great  hand  of  God  I  stand ;  and  thence 
Against  the  undivulg'd  pretense  I  fight 
Of  treasonous  malice. 

Macduff,  And  so  do  I. 

All.  So  all. 

Macbeth.    Let's  briefly  put  on  manly  readiness. 
And  meet  i'  the  hall  together. 

AIL  Well  contented. 

\Exeunt  all  but  Malcolm  and  Donalbain. 

Malcoht.    What  will  you  do  ?     Let's  not  consort  with  them ; 
To  show  an  unfelt  sorrow  is  an  bfiice 
Which  the  false  man  does  easy.     I'll  to  England. 

Do7ialbain.    To  Ireland  I ;  our  separated  fortune 
Shall  keep  us  both  the  safer ;  where  we  are 
There's  daggers  in  men's  smiles ;  the  near  in  blood. 
The  nearer  bloody.^ 

1  "  And  when  we  have,"  etc.,  is  thus  paraphrased  by  Steevens  :  "  When  we 
have  clothed  our  half-dressed  bodies,  which  may  take  cold  from  being  exposed 
to  the  air." 

2  Examine  thoroughly. 

3  "  The  near  in  blood,"  etc.,  i.e.,  the  nearer  the  kin,  the  more  the  danger 
to  our  lives. 


46  SHAKESPEARE.  [act  ii. 

Malcolm,  This  murderous  shaft  that's  shot 

Hath  not  yet  lighted,  and  our  safest  way 
Is  to  avoid  the  aim.     Therefore,  to  horse ; 
And  let  us  not  be  dainty  of  leave-taking, 
But  shift  away  ;i  there's  warrant  in  that  theft 
Which  steals  itself  when  there's  no  mercy  left.  \Exeunt. 

Scene   IV.      Without  the  Castle. 
Enter  Ross  and  an  old  Man. 

Old  Man.    Threescore  and  ten  I  can  remember  well ; 
Within  the  volume  of  which  time  I've  seen 
Hours  dreadful  and  things  strange ;  but  this  sore  night 
Hath  trifled  former  knowings. 

Ross.  Ah,  good  father, 

Thou  seest,  the  heavens,  as  troubled  with  man's  act, 
Threaten  his  bloocfy  stage :  by  the  clock  'tis  day. 
And  yet  dark  night  strangles  the  traveling  lamp.2 
Is't  night's  predominance,  or  the  day's  shame, 
,  That  darkness  does  the  face  of  earth  entomb, 
When  living  light  should  kiss  it  ? 

Old  Man.  'Tis  unnatural 

Even  like  the  deed  that's  done.     On  Tuesday  last 
A  falcon,  towering  in  her  pride  of  place,^ 
Was  by  a  mousing  owl  hawk'd  at  ^  and  kill'd. 

Ross.    And  Duncan's  horses, —  a  thing  most  strange  and  cer- 
tain, — 
Beauteous  and  swift,  the  minions  ^  of  their  race, 
Turn'd  wild  in  nature,  broke  their  stalls,  flung  out, 
Contending  'gainst  obedience,  as  they  would  make 
War  with  mankind. 

1  "  Shift  away,"  i.e.,  get  away  quietly  and  quickly. 

2  **  The  traveling  lamp,"  i.e.,  the  sun. 

3  "  Towering,"  etc.,  is  a  phrase  of  falconry  meaning  soaring  at  her  highest 
elevation. 

*  "  Hawk'd  at,"  i.e.,  pounced  upon.  5  Chosen  darlings. 


SCENE  IV.]  MACBETH.  47 

Old  Man.  'Tis  said  they  eat  ^  each  other. 

Ross.    They  did  so,  to  the  amazement  of  mine  eyes, 
That  look'd  upon't.     Here  comes  the  good  Macduff. — 

Enter  Macduff. 

How  goes  the  world,  sir,  now  ? 

Macduff.  Why,  see  you  not  ? 

Ross.    Is't  known  who  did  this  more  than  bloody  deed  ? 

Macduff.    Those  that  Macbeth  hath  slain. 

Ross.  Alas  the  day  ! 

What  good  could  they  pretend  ? 

Macduff.  They  were  suborn 'd :  2 

Malcolm  and  Donalbain,  the  King's  two  sons. 
Are  stol'n  away  and  fled,  which  puts  upon  them 
Suspicion  of  the  deed. 

Ross.  'Gainst  nature  still  !  — 

Thriftless  ambition,  that  wilt  ravin  up  ^ 
Thine  own  life's  means  !  —  Then  'tis  most  like 
The  sovereignty  will  fall  upon  Macbeth. 

Macduff.    He  is  already  nam'd,  and  gone  to  Scone* 
To  be  invested. 

Ross.  Where  is  Duncan's  body  ? 

1  Old  and  colloquial  form  for  "  ate."  2  Bribed;  hired. 

3  **  Ravin  up,"  i.e.,  eat  ravenously. 

4  "  The  ancient  royal  city  of  Scone,  supposed  to  have  been  the  capital  oi* 
the  Pictish  kingdom,  lay  two  miles  northward  from  the  present  city  of  Perth. 
It  was  the  residence  of  the  Scottish  monarchs  as  early  as  the  reign  of  Ken- 
neth McAlpin,  and  there  was  a  long  series  of  kings  crowned  on  the  cele- 
brated stone  inclosed  in  a  chair,  now  used  as  the  seat  of  our  sovereigns  at 
coronation  in  Westminster  Abbey.  This  stone  was  removed  to  Scone  from 
Dunstaffnage,  the  yet  earlier  residence  of  the  Scottish  kings,  by  Kenneth  II., 
soon  after  the  founding  of  the  Abbey  of  Scone  by  the  Culdees  in  838,  and  was 
transferred  by  Edward  I.  to  Westminster  Abbey  in  1296.  This  remarkable 
stone  is  reported  to  have  found  its  way  to  Dunstaffnage  from  the  plain  of  Luz, 
where  it  was  the  pillow  of  the  patriarch  Jacob  while  he  dreamed  his  dream  (! ). 
An  aisle  of  the  Abbey  of  Scone  remains.  A  few  poor  habitations  alone  exist 
on  the  site  of  the  ancient  royal  city."     (Knight.) 


48  SHAKESPEARE.  [act  hi. 

Macduff,    Carried  to  Colme-kill,i 
The  sacred  storehouse  of  his  predecessors, 
And  guardian  of  their  bones. 

Ross,  Will  you  to  Scone  ? 

Macduff,    No,  cousin,  I'll  to  Fife. 

Ross,  Well,  I  will  thither. 

Macduff.   Well,  may  you  see  things  well  done  there  ; — adieu  !  — 
Lest  our  old  robes  sit  easier  than  our  new  !  2 

Ross.    Farewell,  father. 

Old  Man.    God's  benison  go  with  you,  and  with  those 
That  would  make  good  of  bad,  and  friends  of  foes  ! 

\Exeunt. 


ACT   III. 

Scene  I.     Forres.     A  Room  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Banquo. 

Banquo.    Thou  hast  it  now, — king,  Cawdor,  Glamis,  all, 
As  the  weird  women  promis'd ;  and,  I  fear. 
Thou  play'dst  most  foully  for't.     Yet  it  was  said 
It  should  not  stand  in  thy  posterity. 
But  that  myself  should  be  the  root  and  father 
Of  many  kings.     If  there  come  truth  from  them  — 

1  Colmekill,  or  lona,  one  of  the  Western  Isles  (Hebrides),  now  called 
Icolmkill.  Knight  notes  that  **  this  little  island,  only  three  miles  long  and 
one  and  a  half  broad,  was  once  the  most  important  spot  of  the  whole  cluster  of 
British  Isles.  It  was  inhabited  by  Druids  previous  to  the  year  563,  when 
Colum  McFelim  McFergus,  afterwards  called  St.  Columba,  landed  and  began 
to  preach  Christianity.  A  monastery  was  soon  established  and  a  noble 
cathedral  built,  of  which  the  ruins  still  remain.  The  reputation  of  these 
establishments  extended  over  the  whole  Christian  world  for  some  centuries, 
and  devotees  of  rank  strove  for  admission  into  them ;  the  records  of  royal 
deeds  were  preserved  there,  and  there  the  bones  of  kings  reposed." 

2  "  Lest  our  old  robes,"  etc.,  i.e.,  lest  things  go  from  bad  to  worse. 


SCENE  I.J  MACBETH.  49 

As  upon  thee,  Macbeth,  their  speeches  shine — 
Why,  by  the  verities  on  thee  made  good, 
May  they  not  be  my  oracles  as  well. 
And  set  me  up  in  hope  ?  —  But  hush  !  no  more. 

Sennet^  sounded.      Enter  Macbeth,  as  king.  Lady  Macbeth,  as  queen^ 
Lennox,  Ross,  Lords,  Ladies,  and  Attendants. 

Macbeth.    Here's  our  chief  guest. 

Lady  Macbeth.  If  he  had  been  forgotten, 

It  had  been  as  a  gap  in  our  great  feast. 
And  all-thing  2  unbecoming. 

Macbeth.    To-night  we  hold  a  solemn  supper,^  sir, 
And  I'll  request  your  presence. 

Banquo.  Let  your  highness 

Command  upon  me ;  to  the  which  my  duties 
Are  with  a  most  indissoluble  tie 
Forever  knit. 

Macbeth.        Ride  you  this  afternoon  ? 

Banquo.    Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Macbeth.    We  should  have  else  desir'd  your  good  advice  — 
Which  still  ^  hath  been  both  grave  and  prosperous  — 
In  this  day's  council ;  but  we'll  take  to-morrow. 
Is't  far  you  ride  ? 

Banquo.    As  far,  my  lord,  as  will  fill  up  the  time 
'Twixt  this  and  supper :  go  not  my  horse  the  better, 
I  must  become  a  borrower  of  the  night 
For  a  dark  hour  or  twain. 

Macbeth.  Fail  not  our  feast. 

Banquo.    My  lord,  I  will  not. 

Macbeth.    We  hear  our  bloody  cousins  are  bestow'd 
In  England  and  in  Ireland,  not  confessing 

1  A  signal  call,  on  a  trumpet  or  cornet,  for  entrance  or  exit  on  the  stage, 

2  In  every  way 

3  "  Solemn  supper,"  i.e.,  state  or  ceremonious  festival. 
*  Always. 

X 


50  SHAKESPEARE.  [act  hi. 

Their  cruel  parricide,  filling  their  hearers 
With  strange  invention.     But  of  that  to-morrow, 
When  therewithal  we  shall  have  cause  of  state 
Craving  us  jointly. ^     Hie  you  to  horse ;  adieu, 
Till  you  return  at  night.     Goes  Fleance  with  you  ? 

Baiiquo.    Ay,  my  good  lord :  our  time  does  call  upon*s. 

Macbeth.    I  wish  your  horses  swift  and  sure  of  foot ; 
And  so  I  do  commend  you  to  their  backs. 

Farewell.  —  \Exit  Ba7iqiw. 

Let  every  man  be  master  of  his  time 
Till  seven  at  night.     To  make  society 
The  sweeter  welcome,  we  will  keep  ourself 
Till  supper  time  alone ;  while  then, 2  God  be  with  you  !  — 

[Exeunt  all  but  Macbeth  and  an  Attendant. 
Sirrah,  a  word  with  you :  attend  those  men 
Our  pleasure  ? 

Attenda?tt.    They  are,  my  lord,  without  the  palace  gate. 

Macbeth.    Bring  them  before  us.  —  [Exit  Attendant. 

To  be  thus  is  nothing. 
But  to  be  safely  thus.     Our  fears  in  Banquo 
Stick  deep ;  and  in  his  royalty  of  nature 
Reigns  that  which  would  be  fear'd.     'Tis  much  he  dares ; 
And,  to  that  dauntless  temper  of  his  mind, 
He  hath  a  wisdom  that  doth  guide  his  valor 
To  act  in  safety.     There  is  none  but  he 
Whose  being  I  do  fear ;  and  under  him 
My  Genius  is  rebuk'd,  as,  it  is  said, 
Mark  Antony's  was  by  Caesar.^     He  chid  the  sisters 

1  "  Cause  of  state,"  etc.,  i.e.,  affairs  of  state  calling  for  our  joint  consid- 
eration. 

2  "  While  then,"  i.e.,  till  then. 

3  Plutarch  relates  that  "  Antony  had  in  his  house  a  fortune-telling  gypsy, 
who  was  skilled  in  the  calculation  of  nativities.  This  man,  either  to  oblige 
Cleopatra,  or  following  the  investigation  of  truth,  told  Antony  that  the  star  of 
his  fortune  was  eclipsed  and  obscured  by  that  of  Caesar,  and  advised  him  by 
all  means  to  keep  at  the  greatest  distance  from  that  young  man.     [Octavius 


SCENE  I.]  '  MACBETH.  51 

When  first  they  put  the  name  of  king  upon  me, 

And  bade  them  speak  to  him ;  then,  prophetHke, 

They  hail'd  him  father  to  a  hne  of  kings. 

Upon  my  head  they  plac'd  a  fruitless  crown, 

And  put  a  barren  scepter  in  my  gripe, 

Thence  to  be  wrench'd  with  an  unHneal  hand. 

No  son  of  mine  succeeding.     If  t  be  so, 

For  Banquo*s  issue  have  I  fil'd  ^  my  mind ; 

For  them  the  gracious  Duncan  have  1  murder'd ; 

Put  rancors  in  the  vessel  of  my  peace 

Only  for  them ;  and  mine  eternal  jewel  ^ 

Given  to  the  common  enemy  of  man. 

To  make  them  kings,  —  the  seed  of  Banquo  kings  ! 

Rather  than  so,  come,  Fate,  into  the  list. 

And  champion  me  to  the  utterance  l^  —  Who's  there  ? 

Reenter  Attendant,  with  tzvo  Murderers. 

Now  go  to  the  door,  and  stay  there  till  we  call. 

\Exit  Attendant, 
Was  it  not  yesterday  we  spoke  together  ? 

First  Murderer.    It  was,  so  please  your  highness. 

Macbeth.  Well,  then,  now^ 

Have  you  considered  of  my  speeches  ?     Know 

is  the  Caesar  referred  to.]  *  The  Genius  of  your  life,'  said  he,  *  is  afraid  of 
his :  when  it  is  alone,  its  bearing  is  erect  and  fearless ;  when  his  approaches, 
it  is  dejected  and  depressed.'  Indeed,  there  were  many  circumstances  to  jus- 
tify the  conjurer's  doctrine ;  for  in  every  kind  of  play,  whether  they  cast  lots 
or  cast  the  die,  Antony  was  still  the  loser.  In  their  quail  fights  and  cock 
fights,  Caesar's  birds  always  won." 

1  Defiled.  2  **  Eternal  jewel,"  i.e.,  immortal  soul. 

3  "  Champion  me,"  etc.,  i.e.,  fight  against  me  to  the  last.  Furness  (Vari- 
orum Shakespeare,  vol.  ii.)  quotes  Johnson's  note  :  "  A  Potttrance  (of  which 
'  utterance '  of  the  text  is  a  corruption)  is  a  French  phrase  of  arms.  A 
challenge  or  combat  a  Voutrance  was  the  term  used  when  the  combatants 
engaged  with  an  intention  to  destroy  each  other,  in  opposition  to  trials  of  skill 
at  festivals  or  on  other  occasions,  where  the  contest  was  only  for  reputation 
or  a  prize." 


52  SHAKESPEARE,  [act  hi. 

That  it  was  he  in  the  times  past  which  held  you 

So  under  fortune,  which  you  thought  had  been 

Our  innocent  self.     This  I  made  good  to  you 

In  our  last  conference,  pass'd  in  probation  with  you,^ 

How  you  were  borne  in  hand,^  how  cross'd,  the  instruments, 

Who  wrought  with  them,  and  all  things  else  that  n^ght 

To  half  a  soul  and  to  a  notion  craz'd 

Say,  *^  Thus  did  Banquo."  °     . 

First  Murderer.  You  made  it  known  to  us. 

Macbeth.    I  did  so,  and  went  further,  which  is  now 
Our  point  of  second  meetmg.     Do  you  find 
Your  patience  so  predominant  in  your  nature 
That  you  can  let  this  go  ?     Are  you  so  gospePd  ^ 
To  pray  for  this  good  man  and  for  his  issue. 
Whose  heavy  hand  hath  bow'd  you  to  the  grave 
And  beggar'd  yours  forever  ? 

First  Murderer.  We  are  men,  my  liege. 

Macbeth.    Ay,  in  the  catalogue  ye  go  for  men ; 
As  hounds  and  greyhounds,  mongrels,  spaniels,  curs, 
Shoughs,^  water  rugs,  and  demi-wolves  are  clept^ 
All  by  the  name  of  dogs :  the  valued  file  ^ 
Distinguishes  the  swift,  the  slow,  the  subtle, 
The  housekeeper,  the  hunter,  every  one 
According  to  the  gift  which  bounteous  nature 
Hath  in  him  clos'd,  whereby  he  does  receive 
Particular  addition,  from  the  bill 
That  writes  them  all  alike :  and  so  of  men. 
Now,  if  you  have  a  station  in  the  file, 

1  "  Pass'd,"  etc.,  i.e.,  in  which  it  was  proved  to  you  in  detail. 

2  *'  Borne  in  hand,"  i.e.,  beguiled  by  flattering  promises. 

3  See  Matt.  v.  44. 

4  "  Shough  "  is  a  dog  with  rough,  shaggy  hair.      The  word  is  sometimes 
written,  and  always  pronounced,  "  shock." 

5  Called. 

^  **  Valued  file,"  i.e.,  a  list  in  which  names  and  qualities  are  specifically 
designated. 


SCENE  1.]  MACBETH.  53 

Not  i'  the  worst  rank  of  manhood,  say't ; 
And  I  will  put  that  business  in  your  bosoms, 
Whose  execution  takes  your  enemy  off, 
Grapples  you  to  the  heart  and  love  of  us, 
Who  wear  our  health  but  sickly  in  his  life. 
Which  in  his  death  were  perfect. 

Second  Murderer.  I  am  one,  my  liege, 

Whom  the  vile  blows  and  buffets  of  the  world 
Have  so  incens'd  that  I  am  reckless  what 
I  do  to  spite  the  world. 

First  Murderer.  And  I  another 

So  weary  with  disasters,  tugg'd  with  fortune. 
That  I  would  set  my  life  on  any  chance, 
To  mend  it,  or  be  rid  on't. 

Macbeth.  Both  of  you 

Know  Banquo  was  your  enemy. 

Both  Murderers.  True,  my  lord. 

Macbeth.    So  is  he  mine ;  and  in  such  bloody  distance,^ 
That  every  minute  of  his  being  thrusts 
Against  my  near'st  of  life :  and  though  I  could 
With  barefac'd  power  sweep  him  from  my  sight 
And  bid  my  will  avouch  it,^  yet  I  must  not. 
For  3  certain  friends  that  are  both  his  and  mine. 
Whose  loves  I  may  not  drop,  but  wail  his  fall 
Whom  I  myself  struck  down;  and  thence  it  is. 
That  I  to  your  assistance  do  make  love. 
Masking  the  business  from  the  common  eye 
For  sundry  weighty  reasons. 

Second  Murderer.  We  shall,  my  lord. 

Perform  what  you  command  us. 

First  Murderer.  Though  our  lives — 

1  Variance. 

2  "  With  barefac'd  power,"  etc.,  i.e.,  with  arbitrary  power  destroy  him, 
and  justify  the  act  by  my  will. 

3  On  account  of. 


54  SHAKESPEARE.  [act  hi. 

Macbeth.    Your  spirits  shine  through  you.    Within  this  hour  at 
most 
I  will  advise  you  where  to  plant  yourselves ; 
Acquaint  you  with  the  perfect  spy  o*  the  time,i 
The  moment  on't ;  for't  must  be  done  to-night, 
And  something  2  from  the  palace ;  always  thought 
That  I  require  a  clearness  i^  and  with  him — 
To  leave  no  rubs^  nor  botches  in  the  work — 
Fleance  his  son,  that  keeps  him  company, 
Whose  absence  is  no  less  material  to  me 
Than  is  his  father's,  must  embrace  the  fate      » 
Of  that  dark  hour.     Resolve  yourselves  apart : 
I'll  come  to  you  anon. 

Both  Murderers.  We  are  resolv'd,  my  lord. 

Macbeth.    I'll  call  upon  you  straight:^  abide  within. 

\Exeunt  Murderers. 
It  is  concluded.     Banquo,  thy  soul's  flight. 
If  it  find  heaven,  must  find  it  out  to-night.  \Exit, 

Scene  II.      The  Palace. 
Enter  Lady  Macbeth  and  a  Servant. 

Lady  Macbeth.    Is  Banquo  gone  from  court  ? 

Servant.    Ay,  madam,  but  returns  again  to-night. 

Lady  Macbeth.    Say  to  the  king,  I  would  attend  his  leisure 
For  a  few  words. 

Servant.  Madam,  I  will.  \Exit. 

Lady  Macbeth.  Naught's  had,  all's  spent, 

Where  our  desire  is  got  without  content : 
'Tis  safer  to  be  that  which  we  destroy 
Than  by  destruction  dwell  in  doubtful  joy. 

1  "  The  perfect  spy,"  etc.,  i.e.,  the  exact  time  when  you  may  expect  him. 

2  Somewhat. 

3  **  Always  thought,"  etc.,  i.e.,  remembering  always  that  I  am  not  to  be 
implicated  in  the  matter. 

4  Hindrances,  5  Immediately. 


SCENE  II.]  MACBETH,  55 

Enter  Macbeth. 

How  now,  my  lord  !  why  do  you  keep  alone, 

Of  sorriest  fancies  your  companions  making, 

Using  those  thoughts  which  should  indeed  have  died 

With  them  they  think  on  ?     Things  without  all  remedy 

Should  be  without  regard :  what's  done  is  done. 

Macbeth.    We  have  scotch'd  ^  the  snake,  not  kill'd  it : 
She'll  close  and  be  herself,  whilst  our  poor  maHce 
Remains  in  danger  of  her  former  tooth. 
But  let  the  frame  of  things  disjoint,  both  the  worlds  suffer, 
Ere  we  will  eat  our  meal  in  fear,  and  sleep 
In  the  affliction  of  these  terrible  dreams 
That  shake  us  nightly :  better  be  with  the  dead, 
Whom  we,  to  gain  our  peace,  have  sent  to  peace, 
Than  on  the  torture  of  the  mind  to  lie 
In  restless  ecstasy.^     Duncan  is  in  his  grave ; 
After  hfe's  fitful  fever  he  sleeps  well ; 
Treason  has  done  his  ^  worst :  nor  steel,  nor  poison, 
Malice  domestic,  foreign  levy,  nothing. 
Can  touch  him  further. 

Lady  Macbeth.  Come  on  ; 

Gentle  my  lord,  sleek  o'er  your  rugged  looks ; 
Be  bright  and  jovial  among  your  guests  to-night. 

Macbeth.    So  shall  I,  love ;  and  so,  I  pray,  be  you : 
Let  your  remembrance  apply  to  Banquo ; 
Present  him  eminence,^  both  with  eye  and  tongue : 
Unsafe  the  while,  that  we 

Must  lave  our  honors  in  these  flattering  streams. 
And  make  our  faces  vizards  ^  to  our  hearts, 
Disguising  what  they  are. 

1  Wounded;  gashed. 

2  "  Ecstasy"  is  used  by  Shakespeare  for  any  violent  emotion,  as  anger, 
sorrow,  etc.  3  its. 

*  "  Present  him  eminence,"  i.e.,  do  him  all  honor. 
5  Masks. 


56  SHAKESPEARE.  [act  hi. 

Lady  Macbeth,  You  must  leave  this. 

Macbeth.    O,  full  of  scorpions  is  my  mind,  dear  wife  ! 
Thou  know'st  that  Banquo,  and  his  Fleance,  Hves. 

Lady  Macbeth.    But  in  them  nature's  copy's  ^  not  eterne.^ 

Macbeth.    There's  comfort  yet ;  they  are  assailable ; 
Then  be  thou  jocund.     Ere  the  bat  hath  flown 
His  cloister'd  flight,  ere  to  black  Hecate's  summons 
The  shard-borne  beetle  with  his  drowsy  hums 
Hath  rung  night's  yawning  peal,  there  shall  be  done 
A  deed  of  dreadful  note. 

Lady  Macbeth.  What's  to  be  done  ? 

Macbeth.    Be  innocent  of  the  knowledge,  dearest  chuck, 
Till  thou  applaud  the  deed.  —  Come,  seelrng  night, 
Scarf  up  the  tender  eye  ^  of  pitiful  day. 
And  with  thy  bloody  and  invisible  hand 
Cancel  and  tear  to  pieces  that  great  bond  ^ 
Which  keeps  me  pale  !  —  Light  thickens ;  and  the  crow 
Makes  wing  to  the  rooky  wood:^ 
Good  things  of  day  begin  to  droop  and  drowse ; 
Whiles  ^  night's  black  agents  to  cheir  preys  do  rouse. 
Thou  marvel'st  at  my  words ;  but  hold  thee  still : 
Things  bad  begun  make  strong  themselves  by  ill. 
So,  prithee,  go  with  me.  [Exeunt. 

Scene  III.     A  Park  7tear  the  Palace. 
Enter  three  Murderers. 

First  Murderer.    But  who  did  bid  thee  join  with  us  ? 

Third  Murderer.  Macbeth. 

Second  Murderer.    He  needs  not  our  mistrust,"^  since  he  deHvers 

1  '*  Nature's  copy,"  i.e.,  the  "  human  form  divine;  "  man,  the  image  of 
his  Maker.  2  Eternal. 

3  "  Seeling  night,"  etc.,  i.e.,  obscuring  night  blindfolds  the  tender  eye. 

4  **  That  great  bond,"  i.e.,  Banquo's  life. 

5  **  Rooky  wood,"  i.e.,  wood  thronged  with  rooks.  ^  While. 

*?  "  He  needs  not  our  mistrust,"  i.e.,  we  need  have  no  suspicion  of  him. 


SCENE  III.]  MACBETH.  57 

Our  offices  and  what  we  have  to  do 
To  the  direction  just. 

First  Murderer.  Then  stand  with  us. 

The  west  yet  glimmers  with  some  streaks  of  day : 
Now  spurs  the  lated  traveler  apace 
To  gain  the  timely  inn ;  and  near  approaches 
The  subject  of  our  watch. 

Third  Murderer,  Hark  !  I  hear  horses. 

Banquo.    [  JVi/Mn]  Give  us  a  hght  there,  ho  ! 

Second  Murderer.  Then  'tis  he :  the  rest 

That  are  within  the  note  of  expectation  ^ 
Already  are  i'  the  court. 

First  Murderer.  His  horses  go  about. 

Third  Murderer.    Almost  a  mile  :  but  he  does  usually, 
So  all  men  do,  from  hence  to  the  palace  gate 
Make  it  their  walk. 

Second  Murderer.     A  light,  a  light  ! 

Enter  Banquo  and  Fleance,  with  a  torch. 

Third  Murderer.  'Tis  he. 

First  Murderer.    Stand  to't. 

Banquo.    It  will  be  rain  to-night. 

First  Murderer.  Let  it  come  down. 

[  They  set  upon  Banquo. 

Banquo.    O,  treachery  !      Fly,  good  Fleance,  fly,  fly,  fly  ! 
Thou  mayst  revenge.     O  slave  !  \Dies.     Fleance  escapes. 

Third  Murderer.    Who  did  strike  out  the  light  ? 

First  Murderer.  Was't  not  the  way  ? 

Third  Murderer.    There's  but  one  down  ;  the  son  is  fled. 

Second  Murderer.  We  have  lost 

Best  half  of  our  affair. 

First  Murderer.    Well,  let's  away,  and  say  how  much  is  done. 

\Exeunt. 

1  "  Note  of  expectation,"  i.e.,  list  of  those  expected  at  the  feast. 


58  SHAKESPEARE,  [act  hi. 

Scene  IV.     The  Same,     Hall  in  the  Palace, 

A  banquet  prepared.     Enter  Macbeth,  Lady  Macbeth,  Ross,  Lennox, 
Lords,  and  Attendants. 

Macbeth.    You  know  your  own  degrees ;  sit  down :  at  first 
And  last  ^  the  hearty  welcome. 

Lords.  Thanks  to  your  majesty. 

Macbeth.    Ourself  will  mingle  with  society, 
And  play  the  humble  host. 
Our  hostess  keeps  her  state,^  but  in  best  time 
We  will  require  her  welcome. 

Lady  Macbeth.    Pronounce  it  for  me,  sir,  to  all  our  friends ; 
For  my  heart  speaks  they  are  welcome. 

First  Murderer  appears  at  the  door. 

Macbeth.    See,  they  encounter  thee  with  their  hearts*  thanks. 
Both  sides  are  even :  here  I'll  sit  i'  the  midst. 
Be  large  in  mirth ;  anon  we'll  drink  a  measure 
The  table  round.      [Approach i?tg  the  door.]     There's  blood  upon 
thy  face. 

Murderer.    'Tis  Banquo's,  then. 

Macbeth.    'Tis  better  thee  without  than  he  within. 
Is  he  dispatch' d  ? 

Murderer.    My  lord,  his  throat  is  cut ;  that  I  did  for  him. 

Macbeth.    Thou  art  the  best  o'  the  cut-throats ;  yet  he's  good 
That  did  the  like  for  Fleance :  if  thou  didst  it. 
Thou  art  the  nonpareil.^ 

Murderer.  Most  royal  sir, 

Fleance  is  'scaped. 

Macbeth.    Then  comes  my  fit  again :  I  had  else  been  perfect, 
Whole  as  the  marble,  founded  as  the  rock, 
As  broad  and  general  as  the  casing  ^  air ; 

1  "  At  first  and  last,"  i.e.,  to  first  and  last ;  to  one  and  all. 

2  "  Keeps  her  state,"  i.e.,  keeps  her  chair  or  seat  of  state. 

3  Unequaled.  *  Surrounding. 


SCENE  IV.]  MACBETH,  59 

But  now  I  am  cabin'd,  cribb'd,  confin'd,  bound  in 
To  saucy  doubts  and  fear.     But  Banquo's  safe  ? 

Murderer,    Ay,  my  good  lord  ;  safe  in  a  ditch  he  bides, 
With  twenty  trenched  gashes  on  his  head, 
The  least  a  death  to  nature. 

Macbeth.  Thanks  for  that : 

There  the  grown  serpent  hes ;  the  worm  that's  fled 
Hath  nature  tha    .n  time  will  venom  breed, 
No  teeth  for  the  present.     Get  thee  gone ;  to-morrow 
We'll  hear  ourselves  again. ^  [Exit  Murderer. 

Lady  Macbeth,  My  royal  lord, 

You  do  not  give  the  cheer  ;2  the  feast  is  sold 
That  is  not  often  vouch'd,  while  'tis  a-making, 
'Tis  given  with  welcome :  to  feed  were  best  at  home ; 
From  thence  the  sauce  to  meat  is  ceremony ; 
Meeting  were  bare  without  it. 

Macbeth.  Sweet  remembrancer  ! 

Now,  good  digestion  wait  on  appetite. 
And  health  on  both  ! 

Lennox.  May't  please  your  highness  sit. 

[The  Ghost  of  Banquo  enters^  and  sits  in  Macbeth'' s place. 

Macbeth.    Here  had  we  now  our  country's  honor  roof  d. 
Were  the  grac'd  person  of  our  Banquo  present ; 
Who  may  I  rather  challenge  for  unkindness 
Than  pity  for  mischance  ! 

Ross.  His  absence,  sir, 

Lays  blame  upon  his  promise.      Please't  your  highness 
To  grace  us  with  your  royal  company. 

Macbeth,    The  table's  full. 

Lennox.  Here  is  a  place  reserv'd,  sir. 

Macbeth.    Where  ? 

Lennox.    Here,  my  good  lord.      What  is't  that  moves  your 
highness  ? 

Macbeth.    Which  of  you  have  done  this  ? 

1  **  We'll  hear,"  etc.,  i.e.,  we'll  talk  toijether  again.  2  Welcome. 


6o  SHAKESPEARE,  [act  hi. 

Lords.  What,  my  good  lord  ? 

Macbeth.    Thou  canst  not  say  I  did  it :  never  shake 
Thy  gory  locks  at  me. 

Ross.    Gentlemen,  rise :  his  highness  is  not  well. 

Lady  Macbeth.    Sit,  worthy  friends :  my  lord  is  often  thus, 
And  hath  been  from  his  youth  :  pray  you,  keep  seat ; 
The  fit  is  momentary ;  upon  a  thought 
He  will  again  be  well.     If  much  you  note  him, 
You  shall  offend  him  and  extend  his  passion : 
Feed,  and  regard  him  not. — Are  you  a  man  ? 

Macbeth.    Ay,  and  a  bold  one,  that  dare  look  on  that 
Which  might  appal  the  devil. 

Lady  Macbeth.  O  proper  stuff  ! 

This  is  the  very  painting  of  your  fear : 
This  is  the  air-drawn  dagger  which,  you  said, 
Led  you  to  Duncan.     O,  these  flaws  and  starts, 
Impostors  to  true  fear,^  would  well  become 
A  woman's  story  at  a  winter's  fire, 
Author'iz'd  by  her  grandam.     Shame  itself  ! 
Why  do  you  make  such  faces  ?     When  all's  done, 
You  look  but  on  a  stool. 

Macbeth.    Prithee,  see   there !    behold !    look !    lo !    how  say 
you  ?  — 
Why,  what  care  I  ?     If  thou  canst  nod,  speak  too. 
If  charnel  houses  and  our  graves  must  send 
Those  that  we  bury  back,  our  monuments 
Shall  be  the  maws  of  kites.  [  Ghost  vanishes. 

Lady  Macbeth.  What !  quite  unmann'd  in  folly  ? 

Macbeth.    If  I  stand  here,  I  saw  him. 

Lady  Macbeth.  Fie,  for  shame  ! 

Macbeth.    Blood  hath  been  shed  ere  now,  i'  the  olden  time, 
Ere  human  statute  purg'd  the  gentle  weal ;  2 

1  "  To  true  fear,"  i.e.,  when  compared  with  true  fear. 

2  "  Ere  human  statute,"  etc.,  i.e.,  before  human  statute  purified  the  com- 
monwealth and  civilized  it,  made  it  gentle. 


SCENE  IV.]  MACBETH.  6i 

Ay,  and  since  too,  murders  have  been  performed 
Too  terrible  for  the  ear :  the  time  has  been, 
That,  when  the  brains  were  out,  the  man  would  die, 
And  there  an  end ;  but  now  they  rise  again, 
With  twenty  mortal  murders  ^  on  their  crowns. 
And  push  us  from  our  stools.     This  is  more  strange 
Than  such  a  murder  is. 

Lady  Macbeth.  My  worthy  lord. 

Your  noble  friends  do  lack  you. 

Macbeth.  I  do  forget. — 

Do  not  muse  2  at  me,  my  most  worthy  friends ; 
I  have  a  strange  infirmity,  which  is  nothing 
To  those  that  know  me.     Come,  love  and  health  to  all ; 
Then  Til  sit  down.  —  Give  me  some  wine;  fill  full. 
I  drink  to  the  general  joy  o'  the  whole  table. 
And  to  our  dear  friend  Banquo,  whom  we  miss ; 
Would  he  were  here  !   to  all,  and  him,  we  thirst, 
And  all  to  all.^ 

Lords.  Our  duties,  and  the  pledge. 

Reenter  Ghost. 

Macbeth.    Avaunt !  and  quit  my  sight !  let  the  earth  hide  thee  ! 
Thy  bones  are  marrowless,  thy  blood  is  cold ; 
Thou  hast  no  speculation  ^  in  those  eyes 
Which  thou  dost  glare  with  ! 

Lady  Macbeth.  Think  of  this,  good  peers, 

But  as  a  thing  of  custom :  'tis  no  other ; 
Only  it  spoils  the  pleasure  of  the  time. 

Macbeth.    What  man  dare,  I  dare: 
Approach  thou  like  the  rugged  Russian  bear, 

1  **  Mortal  murders,"  i.e.,  fatal  wounds.  2  Wonder. 

3  "  To  all,"  etc.,  i.e.,  we  drink  to  him  and  to  all,  with  all  best  wishes 
to  all. 

4  **  Speculation,"  i.e.,  as  Dr.  Johnson  notes,  **  the  intelligence  which  is 
perceived  in  the  eye  of  the  living  man." 


62  SHAKESPEARE.  [act  hi. 

The  arm*d  rhinoceros,^  or  the  Hyrcan^  tiger; 

Take  any  shape  but  that,  and  my  firm  nerves 

Shall  never  tremble :  or  be  alive  again, 

And  dare  me  to  the  desert  with  thy  sword ; 

If  trembling  I  inhabit ^  then,  protest^  me 

The  baby  of  a  girl.^     Hence,  horrible  shadow  ! 

Unreal  mockery,  hence  !  \Ghost  vanishes. 

Why,  so :  being  gone, 
I  am  a  man  again.  —  Pray  you,  sit  still. 

Lady  Macbeth,    You  have  displaced  the  mirth,  broke  the  good 
meeting, 
With  most  admir'd  disorder.^ 

Macbeth.  Can  such  things  be. 

And  overcome  us  Hke  a  summer's  cloud. 
Without  our  special  wonder  ?     You  make  me  strange 
Even  to  the  disposition  that  I  owe,^ 
When  now  I  think  you  can  behold  such  sights, 
And  keep  the  natural  ruby  of  your  cheeks, 
When  mine  is  blanch'd  with  fear. 

Ross,  What  sights,  my  lord  ? 

Lady  Macbeth,    I  pray  you,  speak  not ;  he  grows  worse  and 
worse ; 
Question  enrages  him.     At  once,  good  night : 
Stand  not  upon  the  order  of  your  going, 
But  go  at  once„ 


1  "  Arm'd  rhinoceros, "i.e.,  armored  with  his  thick  hide  as  with  a  coat  of 
mail. 

2  Hyrcania  was  the  name  given  by  the  ancients  to  a  part  of  Asia  of  uncer- 
tain extent,  its  northern  boundary  being  the  Caspian  or  Hyrcanian  Sea. 

3  Stay  at  home ;  keep  under  roof. 
*  Call. 

5  "  Baby  of  a  girl,"  i.e.,  a  girl's  doll. 
<5  *'  Admir'd  disorder,"  i.e.,  disorder  to  be  wondered  at. 
■7  **  You  make  me  strange,"  etc.,  i.e.,  you  make  me  a  stranger  even  to  my 
own  feelings,  unable  to  comprehend  the  motive  of  my  fear. 


SCENE  IV.]  MACBETH.  63 

Lennox,  Good  night ;  and  better  health 

Attend  his  majesty  ! 

Lady  Macbeth,         A  kind  good  night  to  all  ! 

[Exeunt  all  but  Macbeth  and  Lady  Macbeth, 

Macbeth,    It   will    have    blood ;    they    say    blood    will    have 
blood : 
Stones  have  been  known  to  move/  and  trees  to  speak ; 
Augurs  and  understood  relations  have 
By  magot-pies  and  choughs  and  rooks  ^  brought  forth 
The  secret'st  man  of  blood. — What  is  the  night  ? 

Lady  Macbeth,    Almost  at  odds  with  morning,  which  is  which. 

Macbeth.    How  say'st  thou,^  that  Macduff  denies  his  person 
At  our  great  bidding  ? 

Lady  Macbeth,  Did  you  send  to  him,  sir  ? 

Macbeth.    I  hear  it  by  the  way ;  but  I  will  send : 
There's  not  a  one  of  them  but  in  his  house 
I  keep  a  servant  fee'd.     I  will  to-morrow, 
And  betimes  I  will,  to  the  weird  sisters : 
More  shall  they  speak ;  for  now  I  am  bent  to  know, 
By  the  worst  means,  the  worst.     For  mine  own  good, 
All  causes  shall  give  way :  I  am  in  blood 
Stepped  in  so  far  that,  should  I  wade  no  more. 
Returning  were  as  tedious  as  go  o'er. 
Strange  things  I  have  in  head,  that  will  to  hand ; 
Which  must  be  acted  ere  they  may  be  scann'd.* 

1  **  Stones  have  been  known  to  move."  Furness  (Variorum  Shakespeare, 
vol.  ii.  p.  183)  quotes  from  Notes  and  Queries,  Nov.  6,  1869:  **  May  not 
fhe  allusion  be  to  the  rocking-stones  or  *  stones  of  judgment,'  by  which  it  was 
thought  the  Druids  tested  the  guilt  or  innocence  of  accused  persons?  At  a 
slight  touch  of  the  innocent,  such  a  stone  moved ;  but  *  the  secret  man  of 
blood '  found  that  his  best  strength  could  not  stir  it." 

2  Magot-pies  and  choughs  and  rooks  are  all  cunning  birds,  frequently 
household  pets,  that  may  be  taught  to  articulate  more  or  less  distinctly.  That 
such  birds  have  been  the  means  of  disclosing  secrets  is  well  known. 

3  **  How  say'st  thou.?  "  i.e.,  what  do  you  say  to  this? 
*  Closely  examined. 


64  SHAKESPEARE.  [act  hi. 

Lady  Macbeth.    You  lack  the  season  of  all  natures,^  sleep. 

Macbeth.    Come,  we'll  to  sleep.     My  strange  and  self-abuse  2 
Is  the  initiate  fear  that  wants  hard  use : 
We  are  yet  but  young  in  deed.  \Exeunt, 

Scene   V.     A  Heath. 
Thunder.     Enter  the  three  Witches,  meeting  Hecate. 

First  Witch.    Why,  how  now,  Hecate  !  you  look  angerly. 

Hecate.    Have  I  not  reason,  beldams  as  you  are. 
Saucy  and  overbold  ?     How  did  you  dare 
To  trade  and  traffic  with  Macbeth 
In  riddles  and  affairs  of  death ; 
And  I,  the  mistress  of  your  charms, 
The  close  ^  contriver  of  all  harms. 
Was  never  calFd  to  bear  my  part, 
Or  show  the  glory  of  our  art  ? 
And,  which  is  worse,  all  you  have  done 
Hath  been  but  for  a  wayward  son, 
Spiteful  and  wrathful,  who,  as  others  do, 
Loves  for  his  own  ends,  not  for  you. 
But  make  amends  now :  get  you  gone, 
And  at  the  pit  of  Acheron  ^ 
Meet  me  i'  the  morning :  thither  he 
Will  come  to  know  his  destiny ; 

1  '*  The  season  of  all  natures,"  i.e.,  that  which  keeps  all  natures  fresh; 
preserves  them. 

2  **  My  strange  and  self-abuse,"  i.e.,  my  strange  self-delusion. 

3  Secret. 

^  A  river  celebrated  in  antiquity,  from  its  supposed  communication  with 
the  realms  of  Pluto.  Homer  called  it,  from  its  dead  appearance,  one  of  the 
rivers  of  the  Lower  World ;  and  the  fable  has  been  adopted  by  succeeding 
poets.  Shakespeare,  as  Steevens  remarks,  **  seems  to  have  thought  it  allowa- 
ble to  bestow  the  name  of  Acheron  on  any  fountain,  lake,  or  pit  through 
which  there  was  vulgarly  supposed  to  be  a  communication  between  this  and 
the  infernal  world." 


SCENE  VI.]  MACBETH.  65 

Your  vessels  and  your  spells  provide, 

Your  charms  and  everything  beside. 

I  am  for  the  air;  this  night  I'll  spend 

Unto  a  dismal  and  a  fatal  end : 

Great  business  must  be  wrought  ere  noon. 

Upon  the  corner  of  the  moon 

There  hangs  a  vaporous  drop  profound ; 

I'll  catch  it  ere  it  come  to  ground : 

And  that  distill'd  by  magic  sleights  1 

Shall  raise  such  artificial  sprites  ^ 

As  by  the  strength  of  their  illusion 

Shall  draw  him  on  to  his  confusion : 

He  shall  spurn  fate,  scorn  death,  and  bear 

His  hopes  'bove  wisdom,  grace,  and  fear : 

And  you  all  know,  security^ 

Is  mortals'  chiefest  enemy. 

\Music  and  a  song  within  :  "  Come  away,  come  away,"  etc. 
Hark  !   I  am  call'd ;  my  little  spirit,  see. 

Sits  in  a  foggy  cloud,  and  stays  for  me.  \Exit, 

First  Witch.    Come,   let's  make   haste ;    she'll   soon   be  back 

again.  \Exeunt. 

Scene  VI.     Forres.      The  Palace. 

Enter  Lennox  and  another  Lord. 

Lennox.    My  former  speeches  have  but  hit  your  thoughts, 
Which  can  interpret  further:  only,  I  say. 
Things  have  been  strangely  borne.     The  gracious  Duncan 
Was  pitied  of  Macbeth :  marry,*  he  was  dead ; 
And  the  right- vahant  Banquo  walk'd  too  late ; 

1  Contrivances. 

2  "  Artificial  sprites,"  i.e.,  spirits  made,  or  made  to  appear,  by  artificial 
means. 

3  Carelessness. 

4  "  Marry:"  this  exclamation,  or  petty  oath,  is  a  corruption  of  "Virgin 
Mary." 


66  SHAKESPEARE.  [act  hi 

Whom,  you  may  say,  if't  please  you,  Fleance  kill'd, 

For  Fleance  fled :  men  must  not  walk  too  late. 

Who  cannot  want  the  thought  how  monstrous 

It  was  for  Malcolm  and  for  Donalbain 

To  kill  their  gracious  father  ?  damned  fact  ! 

How  it  did  grieve  Macbeth  !   did  he  not  straight 

In  pious  rage  the  two  delinquents  tear. 

That  were  the  slaves  of  drink  and  thralls  of  sleep  ? 

Was  not  that  nobly  done  ?     Ay,  and  wisely  too ; 

For  'twould  have  anger'd  any  heart  alive 

To  hear  the  men  deny't.     So  that,  I  say. 

He  has  borne  all  things  well :  and  I  do  think 

That  had  he  Duncan's  sons  under  his  key — 

As,  an't  please  Heaven,  he  shall  not  —  they  should  find 

What  'twere  to  kill  a  father ;  so  should  Fleance. 

But,  peace  !  for  from  broad  words,'  and  'cause  he  fail'd 

His  presence  at  the  tyrant's  feast,  I  hear 

Macduff  lives  in  disgrace.     Sir,  can  you  tell 

Where  he  bestows  himself  ? 

Lord.  The  son  of  Duncan, 

From  whom  this  tyrant  holds  the  due  of  birth. 
Lives  in  the  English  court,  and  is  receiv'd 
Of  the  most  pious  Edward  ^  with  such  grace 
That  the  malevolence  of  fortune  nothing 
Takes  from  his  high  respect.     Thither  Macduff 
Is  gone  to  pray  the  holy  king,  upon  his  aid,^ 
To  wake  Northumberland  and  warlike  Si  ward ; 
That,  by  the  help  of  these,  with  Him  above 
To  ratify  the  work,  we  may  again 
Give  to  our  tables  meat,  sleep  to  our  nights. 
Free  from  our  feasts  and  banquets  bloody  knives, 
Do  faithful  homage,  and  receive  free  honors ; 

1  "  From  broad  words,"  i.e.,  in  consequence  of  free  speech. 

2  Edward  the  Confessor  (see  Note  3,  p.  82). 

3  "  Upon  his  aid,"  i.e.,  to  his  aid. 


SCENE  I.]    '  MACBETH,  67 

All  which  we  pine  for  now.     And  this  report 
Hath  so  exasperate  ^  the  king,  that  he 
Prepares  for  some  attempt  of  war. 

Lenfiox.  Sent  he  to  Macduff  ? 

Lord.    He  did ;  and  with  an  absolute  ''  Sir,  not  I," 
The  cloudy  messenger  turns  me  ^  his  back, 
And  hums,  as  who  should  say,  "  You'll  rue  the  time 
That  clogs  me  with  this  answer." 

Lennox.  And  that  well  might 

Advise  him  to  a  caution,  to  hold  what  distance 
His  wisdom  can  provide.     Some  holy  angel 
Fly  to  the  court  of  England  and  unfold 
His  message  ere  he  come,  that  a  swift  blessing 
May  soon  return  to  this  our  suffering  country 
Under  a  hand  accurs'd  ! 

Lord.  V\\  send  my  prayers  with  him. 

\Exeunt- 


ACT   IV. 

Scene  I.     A  Cavern.     In  the  Middle  a  Boiling  Caldron. 
Thunder.      Enter  the  three  Witches. 

First  Witch.    Thrice  the  brinded  ^  cat  hath  mew'd. 

Second  Witch.    Thrice  and  once  the  hedgepig  whin*d. 

Third  Witch.    Harpier  cries,  "  'Tis  time,  'tis  time." 

First  Witch.    Round  about  the  caldron  go ; 
In  the  poison'd  entrails  throw. 
Toad,  that  under  the  cold  stone 
Days  and  nights  has  thirty-one 

X  Exasperated. 

2  The  "me"  is  redundant,   introduced  to  enliven  the  speech.     There 
are  many  instances  of  this  use  of  the  word  in  Shakespeare. 

3  Brindled. 


68  SHAKESPEARE.  [act  iv. 

Swelter'd  venom  sleeping  got, 
Boil  thou  first  i'  the  charmed  pot. 

All.    Double,  double  toil  and  trouble; 
Fire  burn,  and  caldron  bubble. 

Second  Witch.    Fillet  of  a  fenny  snake, 
In  the  caldron  boil  and  bake ; 
Eye  of  newt  ^  and  toe  of  frog, 
Wool  of  bat  and  tongue  of  dog, 
Adder's  fork  2  and  blindworm's  sting, 
Lizard's  leg  and  howlet's  ^  wing, 
For  a  charm  of  powerful  trouble, 
Like  a  hellbroth  boil  and  bubble. 

All.    Double,  double  toil  and  trouble ; 
Fire  burn,  and  caldron  bubble. 

Third  Witch.    Scale  of  dragon,  tooth  of  wolf, 
Witches'  mummy ,^  maw  and  gulf  ^ 
Of  the  ravin'd  salt-sea  shark. 
Root  of  hemlock  digg'd  i'  the  dark, 
Liver  of  blaspheming  Jew, 
Gall  of  goat,  and  slips  of  yew 
Sliver'd  in  the  moon's  eclipse, 
Nose  of  Turk  and  Tartar's  lips, 
Finger  of  birth-strangled  babe 
Ditch-deliver'd  by  a  drab, 
Make  the  gruel  thick  and  slab  : 
Add  thereto  a  tiger's  chawdron,^ 
For  the  ingredients  of  our  caldron. 

'  A  kind  of  lizard.  2  Forked  tongue.  3  Owlet's. 

4  Nares  (as  quoted  by  Furness)  notes  that  Egyptian  mummy,  or  what 
passed  for  it,  was  formerly  used  as  a  medicine ;  and  Sir  Thomas  Browne, 
as  noted  by  Dyce,  remarks  "that  the  Egyptian  mummies  which  Cambyses 
or  time  had  spared,  avarice  now  consumeth ;  Mummie  has  become  merchan- 
dise, Mizraim  cures  wounds,  and  Pharaoh  is  sold  for  balsams."  But 
the  same  writer  adds,  that  a  large  business  was  done  in  the  manufacturing 
of  mummies  from  dead  carcasses,  and  giving  them  the  names  of  kings. 

5  Gullet.  6  Entrails. 


SCENE  I.]  MACBETH.  69 

All'    Double,  double  toil  and  trouble ; 
Fire  burn,  and  caldron  bubble. 

Second  Witch.    Cool  it  with  a  bab'oon's  blood, 
Then  the  charm  is  firm  and  good. 


Enter  Hecate  to  the  other  three  Witches. 

Hecate.    O,  well  done  !   I  commend  your  pains ; 
And  every  one  shall  share  i'  the  gains : 
And  now  about  the  caldron  sing. 
Like  elves  and  fairies  in  a  ring. 
Enchanting  all  that  you  put  in. 

\Miisic  and  a  song :  ''  Black  spirits,"  etc.     Hecate  retires. 
Second  Witch.    By  the  pricking  of  my  thumbs. 
Something  wicked  this  way  comes. ^ 
Open,  locks. 
Whoever  knocks  ! 

Enter  Macbeth. 

Macbeth.    How  now,  you  secret,  black,  and  midnight  hags  ! 
What  is't  you  do  ? 

All.  A  deed  without  a  name. 

Macbeth.    I  con' jure  you,  by  that  which  you  profess, 
Howe'er  you  come  to  know  it,  answer  me : 
Though  you  untie  the  winds  and  let  them  fight 
Against  the  chiurches ;  though  the  yesty  waves 
Confound  and  swallow  navigation 2  up; 
Though  bladed  corn  be  lodg'd  ^  and  trees  blown  down ; 
Though  castles  topple  on  their  warders'  heads ; 
Though  palaces  and  pyramids  do  slope 
Their  heads  to  their  foundations ;  though  the  treasure 

1  Steevens  remarks,  "It  is  a  very  ancient  superstition,  that  all  sudden 
pains  of  the  body  which  could  not  naturally  be  accounted  for  were  presages 
of  somewhat  that  was  shortly  to  happen." 

2  The  vessels  of  navigation ;  ships.  3  Laid. 


70  SHAKESPEARE.  [act  iv. 

Of  nature's  germens  ^  tumble  altogether, 
Even  till  destruction  sicken ;  answer  me 
To  what  I  ask  you. 

First  Witch.  Speak. 

Second  Witch.  Demand. 

Third  Witch.  We'll  answer. 

First  Witch.    Say  if  thou'dst  rather  hear  it  from  our  mouths, 
Or  from  our  masters'  ? 

Macbeth,  Call  'em ;  let  me  see  'em. 

First  Witch.    Pour  in  sow's  blood,  that  hath  eaten 
Her  nine  farrow  i^  grease  that's  sweaten 
From  the  murderer's  gibbet  throw 
Into  the  flame. 

All.  Come,  high  or  low; 

Thyself  and  office  deftly  show  ! 

Thunder.     First  Apparition  :    an  armed  Head. 

Macbeth.    Tell  me,  thou  unknown  power, — 

First  Witch.  He  knows  thy  thought: 

Hear  his  speech,  but  say  thou  naught. 

First  Apparition.    Macbeth  !     Macbeth  !     Macbeth  !     beware 
Macduff ; 
Beware  the  Thane  of  Fife.     Dismiss  me.     Enough. 

\Descends. 

Macbeth.    Whate'er  thou  art,  for  thy  good  caution,  thanks ; 
Thou  hast  harp'd  my  fear  aright:  ^  but  one  word  more, — 

First  Witch.    He  will  not  be  commanded :  here's  another, 
More  potent  than  the  first.  . 

Thunder.     Second  Apparition  :  a  bloody  Child. 

Second  Apparition.    Macbeth  !   Macbeth  1  Macbeth  ! 
Macbeth.    Had  I  three  ears  I'd  hear  thee. 

1  Fruitful,  germinating  seeds.  2  Litter. 

S  "  Harp'd  my  fear  aright,"  i.e.,  struck  the  chord  or  keynote  of  my  fear. 


SCENE  I.]  MACBETH,  7 1 

Second  Apparition.    Be  bloody,  bold,  and  resolute ;   laugh  to 
scorn 
The  power  of  man,  for  none  of  woman  born 
Shall  harm  Macbeth.  [Descends, 

Macbeth.    Then  live,  Macduff :  what  need  I  fear  of  thee  ? 
But  yet  I'll  make  assurance  double  sure, 
And  take  a  bond  of  fate :  thou  shalt  not  live ; 
That  I  may  tell  pale-hearted  fear  it  lies. 
And  sleep  in  spite  of  thunder. 

Thunder.      Third  Apparition  :   a  Child  crowned^  with  a  tree  in  his  hand. 

What  is  this 
That  rises  like  the  issue  of  a  king, 
And  wears  upon  his  baby  brow  the  round 
And  top  of  sovereignty  ? 

Alt  Listen,  but  speak  not  to't. 

Third  Apparition.    Be  lion-mettled,  proud  ;  and  take  no  care 
Who  chafes,  who  frets,  or  where  conspirers  are : 
Macbeth  shall  never  vanquish'd  be  until 
Great  Birnam  Wood  to  high  Dunsin'ane  Hill 
Shall  come  against  him.  [Descends, 

Macbeth.  That  will  never  be : 

Who  can  impress  the  forest,  bid  the  tree 
Unfix  his  earth-bound  root  ?     Sweet  bodements  !  ^  good  !    . 
Rebellion's  head  rise  never  till  the  wood 
Of  Birnam  rise,  and  our  high-plac'd  Macbeth 
Shall  live  the  lease  of  nature,  pay  his  breath 
To  time  and  mortal  custom.     Yet  my  heart 
Throbs  to  know  one  thing :  tell  me,  if  your  art 
Can  tell  so  much,  shall  Banquo's  issue  ever 
Reign  in  this  kingdom  ? 

All.  Seek  to  know  no  more. 

Macbeth.    I  will  be  satisfied :  deny  me  this 

I   Presages. 


72  SHAKESPEARE.  [act  iv. 

And  an  eternal  curse  fall  on  you  !      Let  me  know. 
Why  sinks  that  caldron  ?  and  what  noise  is  this  ? 

\Hautboys, 

First  Witch.    Show ! 

Second  Witch.    Show  ! 

Third  Witch.    Show  ! 

All.    Show  his  eyes,  and  grieve  his  heart ; 
Come  like  shadows,  so  depart  ! 

A  show  of  eight  Kings,  the  last  with  a  glass  in  his  hand;  Banquo's  Ghost 

following. 

Macbeth.    Thou  art  too  like  the  spirit  of  Banquo ;  down  ! 
Thy  crown  does  sear  mine  eyeballs.     And  thy  hair, 
Thou  other  gold-bound  brow,  is  like  the  first. 
A  third  is  hke  the  former.     Filthy  hags  ! 
Why  do  you  show  me  this  ?     A  fourth !      Start,  eyes  ! 
What !  will  the  line  stretch  out  to  the  crack  of  doom  ? 
Another  yet  !      A  seventh  !      I'll  see  no  more : 
And  yet  the  eighth  appears,  who  bears  a  glass 
Which  shows  me  many  more ;  and  some  I  see 
That  twofold  balls  ^  and  treble  scepters  carry : 
Horrible  sight  !      Now,  I  see,  'tis  true ; 
For  the  blood-bolter'd  ^  Banquo  smiles  upon  me. 
And  points  at  them  for  his.     [Apparitions  vanish.]      What,  is 
this  so  ? 

First  Witch.    Ay,  sir,  all  this  is  so :  but  why 
Stands  Macbeth  thus  amazedly  ? 
Come,  sisters,  cheer  we  up  his  sprights,^ 
And  show  the  best  of  our  dehghts : 
I'll  charm  the  air  to  give  a  sound. 
While  you  perform  your  antic  round ; 

1  The  ball  carried  by  kings  was  an  emblem  of  sovereignty,  **  and  the 
twofold  balls  refer  to  the  double  coronation  of  James  I.  at  Scone  and  at 
Westminster." 

2  Blood-clotted.  3  Spirits. 


SCENE  I.]  MACBETH,  73 

That  this  great  king  may  kindly  say, 
Our  duties  did  his  welcome  pay. 

\Music.     The  Witches  dance,  and  then  vanish,  with  Hecate. 
Macbeth.    Where  are  they  ?     Gone  ?     Let  this  pernicious  hour 
Stand  aye  accursed  in  the  calendar  !  — 
Come  in,  without  there  ! 

Enter  Lennox. 

■Lennox.  What's  your  grace's  will  ? 

Macbeth.    Saw  you  the  weird  sisters  ? 

Lennox.  No,  my  lord. 

Macbeth.    Came  they  not  by  you  ? 

Lennox.  No  indeed,  my  lord. 

Macbeth.    Infected  be  the  air  whereon  they  ride. 
And  damn'd  all  those  that  trust  them  !  —  I  did  hear 
The  galloping  of  horse :  who  was't  came  by  ? 

Lennox.    'Tis  two  or  three,  my  lord,  that  bring  you  word 
Macduff  is  fled  to  England. 

Macbeth.  Fled  to  England  ! 

Lennox.    Ay,  my  good  lord. 

Macbeth.  [Aside]  Time,  thou  anticipat'st  ^  my  dread  exploits : 
The  flighty  purpose  never  is  o'ertook 
Unless  the  deed  go  with  it.     From  this  moment 
The  very  firstlings  of  my  heart  shall  be 
The  firstlings  of  my  hand.     And  even  now. 
To  crown  my  thoughts  with  acts,  be  it  thought  and  done : 
The  castle  of  Macduff  I  will  surprise ; 
Seize  upon  Fife ;  give  to  the  edge  o'  the  sword 
His  wife,  his  babes,  and  all  unfortunate  souls 
That  trace  him  in  his  line.     No  boasting  like  a  fool ; 
This  deed  I'll  do  before  this  purpose  cool. 
But  no  more  sights  !  ^  —  Where  are  these  gentlemen  ? 
Come,  bring  me  where  they  are.  [£xeunt. 

1  Preventest. 

2  **  No  more  sights  "  like  the  *'  horrible  sight  "  he  has  just  beheld. 


74  SHAKESPEARE,  [act  iv. 

Scene  II.     Fife,     Macduff^ s  Castle, 

Enter  Lady  Macduff,  her  Son,  and  Ross. 

Lady  Macduff,    What  hath  he  done,  to  make  him  fly  the  land  ? 

Ross.    You  must  have  patience,  madam. 

Lady  Macduff.  He  had  none : 

His  flight  was  madness.     When  our  actions  do  not. 
Our  fears  do  make  us  traitors. 

Ross.  You  know  not 

Whether  it  was  his  wisdom  or  his  fear. 

Lady  Macduff.    Wisdom  !  to  leave  his  wife,  to  leave  his  babes. 
His  mansion  and  his  titles,  in  a  place 
From  whence  himself  does  fly  ?     He  loves  us  not ; 
He  wants  the  natural  touch :  ^  for  the  poor  wren, 
The  most  diminutive  of  birds,  will  fight. 
Her  young  ones  in  her  nest,  against  the  owl. 
All  is  the  fear  and  nothing  is  the  love ; 
As  Httle  is  the  wisdom,  where  the  flight 
So  runs  against  all  reason. 

Ross.  My  dearest  coz, 

I  pray  you,  school  yourself :  but  for  your  husband, 
He  is  noble,  wise,  judicious,  and  best  knows 
The  fits  o'  the  season.^     I  dare  not  speak  much  further ; 
But  cruel  are  the  times,  when  we  are  traitors 
And  do  not  know  ourselves ;  ^  when  we  hold  rumor 
From  what  we  fear,  yet  know  not  what  we  fear, 
But  float  upon  a  wild  and  violent  sea 
Each  way  and  move.*     I  take  my  leave  of  you : 
Shall  not  be  long  but  I'll  be  here  again. 

1  Affection. 

2  **  The  fits  o'  the  season,"  i.e.,  that  which  befits  the  season. 

3  "  We  are  traitors,"  etc.,  i.e.,  we  are  unconscious  of  guilt,  yet  held  to  be 
traitors. 

^  "  But  float,"  etc.,  i.e.,  but  float  and  move  each  way,  hither  and  thither, 
upon  a  wild  and  violent  sea. 


SCENE  II.]  MACBETH.  75 

Things  at  the  worst  will  cease,  or  else  climb  upward 
To  what  they  were  before.     My  pretty  cousin, 
Blessing  upon  you  ! 

Lady  Macduff,    Fathered  he  is,  and  yet  he's  fatherless. 

Ross,    I  am  so  much  a  fool,  should  I  stay  longer, 
It  would  be  my  disgrace  and  your  discomfort : 
I  take  my  leave  at  once.  \Exit, 

Lady  Macduff,  Sirrah,  your  father's  dead: 

And  what  will  you  do  now  ?     How  will  you  Hve  ? 

Son,    As  birds  do,  mother. 

Lady  Macduff,  What,  with  worms  and  flies  ? 

Son,    With  what  I  get,  I  mean ;  and  so  do  they. 

Lady  Macduff,    Poor  bird  !    thou'dst  never  fear  the  net  nor 
lime,i 
The  pitfall  nor  the  gin.^ 

Sofi,  Why  should  I,  mother  ?  Poor  birds  they  are  not  set  for. 
My  father  is  not  dead,  for  all  your  saying. 

Lady  Macduff.    Yes,  he  is  dead :  how  wilt  thou  do  for  a  father  ? 

Son,    Nay,  how  will  you  do  for  a  husband  ? 

Lady  Macduff,    Why,  I  can  buy  me  twenty  at  any  market. 

Son,    Then  you'll  buy  'em  to  sell  again. 

Lady  Macduff,  Thou  speak'st  with  all  thy  wit ;  and  yet,  i'  faith, 
With  wit  enough  for  thee. 

Son,    Was  my  father  a  traitor,  mother  ? 

Lady  Macduff,    Ay,  that  he  waSo 

Son,    What  is  a  traitor  ? 

Lady  Macduff,    Why,  one  that  swears  and  lies. 

Son.    And  be  all  traitors  that  do  so  ? 

Lady  Macduff,  Every  one  that  does  so  is  a  traitor,  and  must 
be  hang'd. 

Son,    And  must  they  all  be  hang'd  that  swear  and  lie  ? 

1  Birdlime,  a  viscous  substance  with  which  the  edges  of  birds'  nests  and 
the  tree  branches  near-  them  were  smeared,  and  by  which  the  birds  were 
insnared. 

2  Trap. 


76  SHAKESPEARE,  [act  iv. 

Lady  Macduff,    Every  one. 

Son,    Who  must  hang  them  ? 

Lady  Macduff.    Why,  the  honest  men. 

Son,  Then  the  liars  and  swearers  are  fools,  for  there  are  liars 
and  swearers  enow  ^  to  beat  the  honest  men  and  hang  up  them. 

Lady  Macduff,  Now,  God  help  thee,  poor  monkey  !  But  how 
wilt  thou  do  for  a  father  ? 

Son,  If  he  were  dead,  you'd  weep  for  him :  if  you  would  not, 
it  were  a  good  sign  that  I  should  quickly  have  a  new  father. 

Jjidy  Macduff,    Poor  prattler,  how  thou  talk'st  ! 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Messenger.    Bless  you,  fair  dame  !     I  am  not  to  you  known, 
Though  in  your  state  of  honor  I  am  perfect. 
I  doubt  some  danger  does  approach  you  nearly : 
If  you  will  take  a  homely  ^  man's  advice. 
Be  not  found  here ;  hence,  with  your  little  ones. 
To  fright  you  thus,  methinks,  I  am  too  savage ; 
To  do  worse  to  you  were  fell  cruelty. 
Which  is  too  nigh  your  person.     Heaven  preserve  you  ! 
I  dare  abide  no  longer.  \Exit. 

Lady  Macduff,  Whither  should  I  fly  ? 

I  have  done  no  harm.     But  I  remember  now 
I  am  in  this  earthly  world,  where  to  do  harm 
Is  often  laudable,  to  do  good  sometime 
Accounted  dangerous  folly;  why,  then,  alas! 
Do  I  put  up  that  womanly  defense. 
To  say  I  have  done  no  harm  ? 

Enter  Murderers.       • 

What  are  these  faces  ? 
First  Murderer.    Where  is  your  husband  ? 
Lady  Macduff.    I  hope  in  no  place  so  unsanctified 
Where  such  as  thou  mayst  find  him. 

1  Enough.  2  Plain. 


SCENE  III.]  MACBETH,  77 

First  Murderer.  He's  a  traitor. 

Son,    Thou  liest,  thou  shag-hair'd  ^  villain  ! 
First  Murderer,  What,  you  ^gg  ! 

[Stabbing  him. 
Young  fry  of  treachery  ! 

Son.  He  has  kill'd  me,  mother : 

Run  away,  I  pray  you  !  [Dies. 

[Exit  Lady  Macduff,  crying  "  Murder  !  " 
Exeunt  Murderers,  following  her. 

Scene  in.     England.     Before  the  King's  Palace, 
Enter  Malcolm  and  Macduff. 

Malcolm,    Let  us  seek  out  some  desolate  shade,  and  there 
Weep  our  sad  bosoms  empty. 

Macduff,  Let  us  rather 

Hold  fast  the  mortal  sword,  and  like  good  men 
Bestride  our  downfall'n  birthdom;^  each  new  morn 
New  widows  howl,  new  orphans  cry,  new  sorrows 
Strike  heaven  on  the  face,  that  it  resounds 
As  if  it  felt  with  Scotland  and  yell'd  out 
Like  syllable  of  dolor.^ 

Malcohn,  What  I  beheve  I'll  wail ; 

What  know,  believe ;  and  what  I  can  redress, 
As  I  shall  find  the  time  to  friend,^  I  will. 
What  you  have  spoke,  it  may  be  so  perchance. 
This  tyrant,  whose  sole  name  ^  blisters  our  tongues, 
Was  once  thought  honest :  you  have  lov'd  him  well ; 
He  hath  not  touch'd  you  yet.     I  am  young ;  but  something 
You  may  deserve  of  him  through  me,  and  wisdom 

1  Rough ;  coarse-haired. 

2  **  Our  downfalFn  birthdom,"  i.e.,  our  downfallen  country. 

3  **  Like  syllable  of  dolor,"  i.e.,  similar  cry  of  grief. 

4  "  The  time  to  friend,"  i.e.,  the  time  convenient. 

5  **  Whose  sole  name,"  i.e.,  the  mere  naming  of  whom. 


78  •  SHAKESPEARE.  [act  iv. 

To  offer  up  a  weak,  poor,  innocent  lamb 
To  appease  an  angry  god. 

Macduff.    I  am  not  treacherous. 

Malcolm.  But  Macbeth  is. 

A  good  and  virtuous  nature  may  recoil  ^ 
In  an  imperial  charge.     But  I  shall  crave  your  pardon ; 
That  which  you  are  my  thoughts  cannot  transpose : 
Angels  are  bright  still,  though  the  brightest  fell : 
Though  all  things  foul  would  wear  the  brows  of  grace, 
Yet  grace  must  still  look  so. 2 

Macduff.  I  have  lost  my  hopes. 

Malcolm.    Perchance  even  there  where  I  did  find  my  doubts. 
Why  in  that  rawness  ^  left  you  wife  and  child. 
Those  precious  motives,  those  strong  knots  of  love, 
Without  leave-taking  ?     I  pray  you, 
Let  not  my  jealousies  be  your  dishonors, 
But  mine  own  safeties.     You  may  be  rightly  just, 
Whatever  I  shall  think. 

Macduff.  Bleed,  bleed,  poor  country  ! 

Great  tyranny,  lay  thou  thy  basis  sure. 
For  goodness  dare  not  check  thee :  wear  thou  thy  wrongs ; 
The  title  is  affeer'd  !  ^     Fare  thee  well,  lord : 
I  would  not  be  the  villain  that  thou  think'st 
For  the  whole  space  that's  in  the  tyrant's  grasp, 
And  the  rich  East  to  boot. 

Malcolm.  Be  not  offended  : 

I  speak  not  as  in  absolute  fear  of  you. 
I  think  our  country  sinks  beneath  the  yoke ; 
It  weeps,  it  bleeds ;  and  each  new  day  a  gash 
Is  added  to  her  wpunds :  I  think  withal 
There  would  be  hands  uplifted  in  my  right ; 
And  here  from  gracious  England  have  I  offer 

1  Give  way. 

2  *'  Grace  must  still  look  so,"  i.e.,  grace  must  still  look  like  herself. 

3  Unprotected  condition.  ^  Confirmed. 


SCENE  III.]  MACBETH,  79 

Of  goodly  thousands ;  but,  for  all  this, 
When  I  shall  tread  upon  the  tyrant's  head. 
Or  wear  it  on  my  sword,  yet  my  poor  country 
Shall  have  more  vices  than  it  had  before, 
More  suffer  and  more  sundry  ways  than  ever,i 
By  him  that  shall  succeed. 

Macduff,  What  should  he  be  ? 

Malcolm.    It  is  myself  I  mean ;  in  whom  I  know 
All  the  particulars  of  vice  so  grafted 
That,  when  they  shall  be  open'd,^  black  Macbeth 
Will  seem  as  pure  as  snow,  and  the  poor  state 
Esteem  him  as  a  lamb,  being  compared 
With  my  confineless^  harms. 

Macduff,  Not  in  the  legions 

Of  horrid  hell  can  come  a  devil  more  damn'd 
In  evils  to  top  Macbeth. 

Malcolm.  I  grant  him  bloody, 

Luxurious,  avaricious,  false,  deceitful, 
Sudden,  malicious,  smacking  of  every  sin 
That  has  a  name ;  but  there's  no  bottom,  none. 
In  my  voluptuousness.     Better  Macbeth 
Than  such  an  one  to  reign. 

Macduff.  Boundless  intemperance 

In  nature  is  a  tyranny ;  it  hath  been 
The  untimely  emptying  of  the  happy  throne 
And  fall  of  many  kings.     But  fear  not  yet 
To  take  upon  you  what  is  yours :  you  may 
Convey  your  pleasures  in  a  spacious  plenty, 
And  yet  seem  cold. 

Malcolm.  With  this  there  grows 

In  my  most  ill-compos'd  affection  such 
A  stanchless  ^  avarice  that,  were  I  king, 

1  "  More  suffer,"  etc.,  i.e.,  suffer  more  and  in  more  various  ways  than 
ever.  2  Blossom,  like  grafted  buds. 

3  Unconfined  ;  boundless.  *  Ever-flowing ;   unceasing. 


So  SHAKESPEARE.  t^ex  iv. 

I  should  cut  off  the  nobles  for  their  lands, 
Desire  his  jewels  and  this  other's  house  ;i 
And  my  more-having  would  be  as  a  sauce 
To  make  me  hunger  more,  that  I  should  forge 
Quarrels  unjust  against  the  good  and  loyal, 
Destroying  them  for  wealth. 

Macduff,  This  avarice 

Sticks  deeper,  grows  with  more  pernicious  root 
Than  summer-seeming  lust,  and  it  hath  been 
The  sword  of  our  slain  kings :  yet  do  not  fear ; 
Scotland  hath  foisons  ^  to  fill  up  your  will. 
Of  your  mere  own :  all  these  are  portable,^ 
With  other  graces  weigh'd. 

Malcolm.    But  I  have  none :  the  king-becoming  graces, 
As  justice,  verity,  temperance,  stableness, 
Bounty,  persev'erance,  mercy,  lowliness. 
Devotion,  patience,  courage,  fortitude, 
I  have  no  relish  of  them,  but  abound 
In  the  division  of  each  several  crime. 
Acting  it  many  ways.     Nay,  had  I  power,  I  should 
Pour  the  sweet  milk  of  concord  into  hell, 
Uproar^  the  universal  peace,  confound 
All  unity  on  earth. 

Macduff.  O  Scotland,  Scotland  ! 

Malcolm.    If  such  a  one  be  fit  to  govern,  speak : 
I  am  as  I  have  spoken. 

Macduff.  Fit  to  govern  ! 

No,  not  to  live.     O  nation  miserable. 
With  an  untitled  tyrant  bloody-scepter'd. 
When  shalt  thou  see  thy  wholesome  days  again, 
Since  that  the  truest  issue  of  thy  throne 

1  "  His  jewels  and  this  other's  house,"  i.e.,  this  man's  jewels,  that  man's 
house. 

2  Abundance.  3  Bearable. 
*  Put  in  an  uproar  or  confusion. 


SCENE  III.]  MACBETH,  8l 

By  his  own  interdiction  i  stands  accurs'd, 

And  does  blaspheme  his  breed  ?     Thy  royal  father 

Was  a  most  sainted  king :  the  queen  that  bore  thee, 

Oftener  upon  her  knees  than  on  her  feet, 

Died  every  day  she  lived.^     Fare  thee  well  ! 

These  evils  thou  repeat'st  upon  thyself 

Have  banish'd  me  from  Scotland.     O  my  breast, 

Thy  hope  ends  here  ! 

Malcolm.  Macduff,  this  noble  passion, 

Child  of  integrity,  hath  from  my  soul 
Wip'd  the  black  scruples,  reconcil'd  my  thoughts 
To  thy  good  truth  and  honor.     DeviHsh  Macbeth 
By  many  of  these  trains  ^  hath  sought  to  win  me 
Into  his  power,  and  modest  wisdom  plucks  me 
From  overcredulous  haste :  but  God  above 
Deal  between  thee  and  me  !  for  even  now 
I  put  myself  to  thy  direction,  and 
Unspeak  mine  own  detraction,  here  abjure 
The  taints  and  blames  I  laid  upon  myself. 
For  strangers  to  my  nature.     I  am  yet 
Unknown  to  woman,  never  was  forsworn, 
Scarcely  have  coveted  what  was  mine  own, 
At  no  time  broke  my  faith,  would  not  betray 
The  devil  to  his  fellow,  and  dehght 
No  less  in  truth  than  life :  my  first  false  speaking 
Was  this  upon  myself.     What  I  am  truly, 
Is  thine  and  my  poor  country's  to  command ; 
Whither  indeed,  before  thy  here-approach, 
Old  Si  ward,  with  ten  thousand  warlike  men. 
Already  at  a  point,^  was  setting  forth. 

1  Confession. 

2  **  Died  every  day  she  lived,"  i.e.,  mortified  herself  daily.    **  I  die  daily  '* 
(l  Cor.  XV.  31). 

3  Seductive  wiles  ;  lures. 

*  "  Already  at  a  point,"  i.e.,  fully  prepared. 

6 


82  SHAKESPEARE.  [act  iv. 

Now  we'll  together ;  and  the  chance  of  goodness 

Be  like  our  warranted  quarrel  !  ^     Why  are  you  silent  ? 

Macduff.    Such  welcome  and  unwelcome  things  at  once 
Tis  hard  to  reconcile. 

Enter  a  Doctor. 

Malcolm.    Well,  more  anon.  —  Comes  the  king  forth,  I  pray 
you  ? 

Doctor.    Ay,  sir ;  there  are  a  crew  of  wretched  souls 
That  stay  his  cure  :  their  malady  convinces 
The  great  assay  of  art,^  but  at  his  touch, 
Such  sanctity  hath  Heaven  given  his  hand. 
They  presently  amend. 

Malcolm.  I  thank  you,  doctor.  [Exit  Doctor. 

Macduff.    What's  the  disease  he  means  ? 

Malcobn.  'Tis  call'd  the  evil  .^ 

A  most  miraculous  work  in  this  good  king. 
Which  often,  since  my  here-remain  in  England, 
I  have  seen  him  do.     How  he  solicits  Heaven, 
Himself  best  knows ;  but  strangely- visited  people, 

1  "  Chance  of  goodness,"  etc.,  i.e.,  the  chance  of  success  be  as  assured  as 
the  justice  of  our  cause. 

2  *'  Their  malady  convinces,"  etc.,  i.e.,  their  disease  overcomes  all  the  art 
of  the  most  skillful  physicians. 

3  "  'Tis  call'd  the  evil,"  i.e.,  the  king's  evil,  scrofula.  The  name  of 
"  king's  evil  "  was  applied  to  this  affliction  in  consequence  of  an  old  belief  that 
scrofulous  tumors  could  be  cured  by  royal  touch.  Old  historians  record  that 
multitudes  of  patients  were  submitted  to  this  treatment  from  the  days  of  Ed- 
ward the  Confessor  to  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne.  In  the  English  Cyclopedia, 
under  the  head  of  **  Scrofula,"  a  note  from  Carte's  History  of  England  is  cited 
to  the  effect  that  "  the  Jacobites  considered  that  this  power  did  not  descend 
to  Mary,  William,  or  Anne,  as  they  did  not  reign  by  divine  right."  The 
practice  of  presenting  the  patient  with  a  coin  was  not  introduced  till  the  time 
of  Henry  VII.  In  the  reign  of  Charles  II.  a  medal  specially  designed  for 
the  purpose  was  given.  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson,  in  171 2,  when  a  child,  was 
touched  by  Queen  Anne,  and  was  probably  among  the  last  to  receive  the 
treatment.  The  prayer  for  the  ceremony,  which  appears  in  the  Liturgy  of 
the  Church  of  England  as  late  as  1719,  has  been  silently  omitted. 


SCENE  III.]  MACBETH,  83 

All  swoln  and  ulcerous,  pitiful  to  the  eye, 

The  mere  despair  of  surgery,  he  cures, 

Hanging  a  golden  stamp  about  their  necks, 

Put  on  with  holy  prayers ;  and  'tis  spoken, 

To  the  succeeding  royalty  he  leaves 

The  healing  benediction.     With  this  strange  virtue 

He  hath  a  heavenly  gift  of  prophecy, 

And  sundry  blessings  hang  about  his  throne, 

That  speak  him  full  of  grace. 

Enter  Ross. 

Macduff,  See,  who  comes  here  ? 

Malcolm,    My  countryman ;  but  yet  I  know  him  not. 

Macduff.    My  ever-gentle  cousin,  welcome  hither. 

Malcolm.    I  know  him  now.     Good  God,  betimes  remove 
The  means  that  makes  us  strangers  ! 

Ross.  .  Sir,  amen. 

Macduff.    Stands  Scotland  where  it  did  ? 

Ross.  Alas,  poor  country  ! 

Almost  afraid  to  know  itself.     It  cannot 
Be  caird  our  mother,  but  our  grave ;  where  nothing, 
But  who  knows  nothing,  is  once  seen  to  smile ; 
Where  sighs  and  groans  and  shrieks  that  rend  the  air 
Are  made,  not  mark'd ;  where  violent  sorrow  seems 
A  modern  ecstasy :  ^  the  dead  man's  knell 
Is  there  scarce  ask'd  for  who ;  2  and  good  men's  lives 
Expire  before  the  flowers  in  their  caps. 
Dying  or  ere  they  sicken. 

Macdtiff.  O,  relation 

Too  nice,  and  yet  too  true  !  ^ 

Malcolm.  What's  the  newest  grief? 

Ross.    That  of  an  hour's  age  doth  hiss  the  speaker : 
Each  minute  teems  ^  a  new  one. 

1  **  A  modern  ecstasy,"  i.e.,  an  ordinary  grief.  2  Whom. 

3**0,  relation,"  etc.,  i.e.,  the  narrative,  though  worded  with  too  much 
art,  is  yet,  alas,  too  true.  4  Gives  birth  to. 


84  SHAKESPEARE.  [act  iv. 

Macduff.  How  does  my  wife  ? 

Ross.    Why,  well. 

Macduff,  And  all  my  children  ?  * 

Ross.  Well  too. 

Macduff,    The  tyrant  has  not  batter'd  at  their  peace  ? 

Ross.    No ;  they  were  well  at  peace  when  I  did  leave  'em. 

Macduff.    Be  not  a  niggard  of  your  speech :  how  goes't  ? 

Ross.    When  I  came  hither  to  transport  the  tidings, 
Which  I  have  heavily  borne,  there  ran  a  rumor 
Of  many  worthy  fellows  that  were  out ;  ^ 
Which  was  to  my  belief  witness'd  the  rather, 
For  that  ^  I  saw  the  tyrant's  power  ^  afoot. 
Now  is  the  time  of  help ;  your  eye  in  Scotland 
Would  create  soldiers,  make  our  women  fight, 
To  doff  ^  their  dire  distresses. 

Malcolm.  Be't  their  comfort 

We  are  coming  thither :  gracious  England  hath 
Lent  us  good  Si  ward  and  ten  thousand  men ; 
An  older  and  a  better  soldier  none 
That  Christendom  gives  out. 

Ross.  Would  I  could  answer 

This  comfort  with  the  hke  !      But  I  have  words 
That  would  be  howl'd  out  in  the  desert  air. 
Where  hearing  should  not  latch  ^  them. 

Macduff.  What  concern  they  ? 

The  general  cause  ?  or  is  it  a  fee-grief  ^ 
Due  to  some  single  breast  ? 

Ross.  No  mind  that's  honest 

But  in  it  shares  some  woe ;  though  the  main  part 
Pertains  to  you  alone.  • 

Macduff.  If  it  be  mine, 

Keep  it  not  from  me,  quickly  let  me  have  it. 

1  Out  in  armed  rebellion.  2  **  p^^r  that,"  i.e.,  because. 

3  Army.  ■*  Do  off ;  to  be  freed  from.  ^  Catch. 

6  A  personal  grief  of  which  one  is  the  sole  possessor,  has  it  in  fee. 


SCENE  III.]  MACBETH.  85 

Ross.    Let  not  your  ears  despise  my  tongue  forever, 
Which  shall  possess  them  with  the  heaviest  sound 
That  ever  yet  they  heard. 

Macduff.  Hum  !  I  guess  at  it. 

Ross.    Your  castle  is  surpris'd ;  your  wife  and  babes 
Savagely  slaughter'd :  to  relate  the  manner, 
Were,  on  the  quarry  ^  of  these  murder'd  deer, 
To  add  the  death  of  you. 

Malcolm.  Merciful  Heaven  ! 

What,  man  !  ne'er  pull  your  hat  upon  your  brows ; 
Give  sorrow  words :  the  grief  that  does  not  speak 
Whispers  the  o'erfraught  heart,  and  bids  it  break. 

Macduff.    My  children  too  ? 

Ross.  Wife,  children,  servants,  all 

That  could  be  found. 

Macduff.  And  I  must  be  from  thence  ! 

My  wife  kill'd  too  ? 

Ross.  I  have  said. 

Malcobn.  Be  comforted : 

Let's  make  us  med'cines  of  our  great  revenge. 
To  cure  this  deadly  grief. 

Macduff,    He  has  no  children.     All  my  pretty  ones  ? 
Did  you  say  all  ?     O  hell-kite  !      All  ? 
What,  all  my  pretty  chickens  and  their  dam 
At  one  fell  swoop  ? 

Malcolm.    Dispute  2  it  like  a  man. 

Macduff.  I  shall  do  so 

But  I  must  also  feel  it  as  a  man : 
I  cannot  but  remember  such  things  were. 
That  were  most  precious  to  me.     -Did  Heaven  look  on, 
And  would  not  take  their  part  ?     Sinful  Macduff, 
They  were  all  struck  for  thee  !   naught  ^  that  I  am, 
Not  for  their  own  demerits,  but  for  mine. 
Fell  slaughter  on  their  souls.     Heaven  rest  them  now  ! 

1  *'  A  heap  of  slaughtered  game."         2  Contend  with.         3  Vile  thing. 


86  SHAKESPEARE.  [act  v. 

Malcolm,    Be  this  the  whetstone  of  your  sword :  let  grief 
Convert  to  anger ;  blunt  not  the  heart,  enrage  it. 

Macduff,    O,  I  could  play  the  woman  with  mine  eyes, 
And  braggart  with  my  tongue  !      But,  gentle  heavens, 
Cut  short  all  intermission ;  ^  front  to  front 
Bring  thou  this  fiend  of  Scotland  and  myself ; 
Within  my  sword's  length  set  him ;  if  he  'scape. 
Heaven  forgive  him  too  ! 

Malcolm.  This  tune  goes  manly. 

Come,  go  we  to  the  king ;  our  power  is  ready ; 
Our  lack  is  nothing  but  our  leave. 2     Macbeth 
Is  ripe  for  shaking,  and  the  powers  above 
Put  on  their  instruments.^     Receive  what  cheer  you  may : 
The  night  is  long  that  never  finds  the  day.  [Exeunt, 


ACT   V. 

Scene  I.      Dunsinane.     Anteroom  in  the  Castle. 
Enter  a  Doctor  of  Physic  and  a  Waiting  Gentlewoman. 

Doctor,  I  have  two  nights  watch'd  with  you,  but  can  perceive 
no  truth  in  your  report.     When  was  it  she  last  walk'd  ? 

Gentlewoman.  Since  his  majesty  went  into  the  field,  I  have 
seen  her  rise  from  her  bed,  throw  her  nightgown  upon  her,  un- 
lock her  closet,  take  forth  paper,  fold  it,  write  upon't,  read  it, 
afterwards  seal  it,  and  again  return  to  bed ;  yet  all  this  while  in 
a  most  fast  sleep. 

Doctor,  A  great  perturbation  in  nature,  to  receive  at  once  the 
benefit  of  sleep,  and  do  the  effects  of  watching  !  In  this  slum- 
bery^  agitation,  besides  her  walking  and  other  actual  perform- 
ances, what,  at  any  time,  have  you  heard  her  say  ? 

1  Interruption;  delay. 

2  **  Our  lack,"  etc.,  i.e.,  there  is  nothing  lacking  now  but  to  take  leave. 

3  "  Powers,"  etc.,  i.e.,  powers  above  instigate  men  to  the  work. 

4  Slumberous. 


SCENE  I.]  MACBETH,  87 

Gentlewo7nan,    That,  sir,  which  I  will  not  report  after  her. 
Doctor,    You  may  to  me :  and  'tis  most  meet  you  should. 
Gentlewoman.    Neither  to  you  nor  any  one  ;  having  no  witness 
to  confirm  my  speech. 

Enter  Lady  Macbeth,  with  a  taper. 

Lo  you,  here  she  comes  !  This  is  her  very  guise  ;i  and,  upon 
my  life,  fast  asleep.     Observe  her ;  stand  close.*'^ 

Doctor,    How  came  she  by  that  light  ? 

Gentlewoman,  Why,  it  stood  by  her:  she  has  light  by  her 
continually ;  'tis  her  command. 

Doctor,    You  see,  her  eyes  are  open. 

Gentlewoman.    Ay,  but  their  sense  is  shut. 

Doctor.    What  is  it  she  does  now  ?   Look  how  she  rubs  her  hands. 

Gentlewoman.  It  is  an  accustom'd  action  with  her,  to  seem  thus 
washing  her  hands :  I  have  known  her  continue  in  this  a  quarter 
of  an  hour. 

Lady  Macbeth,    Yet  here's  a  spot. 

Doctor.  Hark  !  she  speaks :  I  will  set  down  what  comes  from 
her,  to  satisfy  my  remembrance  the  more  strongly. 

Lady  Macbeth.  Out,  damned  spot  !  out,  I  say  !  — One:  two: 
why,  then  'tis  time  to  do't.  —  Hell  is  murky  !  —  Fie,  my  lord,  fie  ! 
a  soldier,  and  afeard  ?  What  need  we  fear  who  knows  it,  when 
none  can  call  our  power  to  account?  —  Yet  who  would  have 
thought  the  old  man  to  have  had  so  much  blood  in  him! 

Doctor.    Do  you  mark  that  ? 

Lady  Macbeth.  The  Thane  of  Fife  had  a  wife :  where  is  she 
now? — What,  will  these  hands  ne'er  be  clean  ?  —  No  more  o' 
that,  my  lord,  no  more  o'  that :  you  mar  all  with  this  starting. 

Doctor,    Go  to,  go  to  ;  ^  you  have  known  what  you  should  not. 

1  **  Very  guise,"  i.e.,  the  dress  and  manner  in  which  she  always  appears 
on  these  occasions.  2  Quiet. 

3  "Go  to,"  an  exclamation  of  horror  and  astonishment  here.  The 
phrase  is  used  in  various  senses  by  Shakespeare, — as  an  expression  of  en- 
couragement, of  reproach,  of  contempt,  etc. 


88  SHAKESPEARE,  [act  v. 

Gentlewoman,  She  has  spoke  what  she  should  not^  I  am  sure 
of  that :  Heaven  knows  what  she  has  known. 

Lady  Macbeth.  Here's  the  smell  of  the  blood  still :  all  the  per- 
fumes of  Arabia  will  not  sweeten  this  little  hand.     Oh,  oh,  oh  ! 

Doctor.    What  a  sigh  is  there  !      The  heart  is  sorely  charg'd. 

Gentlewoman.  I  would  not  have  such  a  heart  in  my  bosom  for 
the  dignity  of  the  whole  body.i 

Doctor.    Well,  well,  well, — 

Gentlewoman.    Pray  God  it  be,  sir. 

Doctor.  This  disease  is  beyond  my  practice  :  yet  I  have  known 
those  which  have  walk'd  in  their  sleep  who  have  died  holily  in 
their  beds. 

Lady  Macbeth.  Wash  your  hands,  put  on  your  nightgown ; 
look  not  so  pale.  —  I  tell  you  yet  again,  Banquo's  buried;  he 
cannot  come  out  on's  grave. 

Doctor.    Even  so  ? 

Lady  Macbeth.  To  bed,  to  bed  !  there's  knocking  at  the  gate : 
come,  come,  come,  come,  give  me  your  hand.  What's  done  can- 
not be  undone.  —  To  bed,  to  bed,  to  bed  !  \Exit. 

Doctor.    Will  she  go  now  to  bed  ? 

Gentlewo?nan.    Directly.^ 

Doctor.    Foul  whisperings  are  abroad :  unnatural  deeds 
Do  breed  unnatural  troubles :  infected  minds 
To  their  deaf  pillows  will  discharge  their  secrets : 
More  needs  she  the  divine  than  the  physician. 
God,  God  forgive  us  all  !      Look  after  her ; 
Remove  from  her  the  means  of  all  annoyance. 
And  still  keep  eyes  upon  her.     So,  good  night : 
My  mind  she  has  mated,^  and  amazed  my  sight. 
I  think,  but  dare  not  speak. 

Gentlewoman.    Good  night,  good  doctor.  [Exeunt. 


1  "  Heart,"  etc.,  i.e.,   such  a  heart  in  my  bosom  for  all  the  rank  and 
honors  of  her  state. 

2  At  once.  3  Confounded. 


SCENE  II.]  MACBETH.  89 

Scene  II.     The  Country  near  Dunsinane. 

Drum  and  colors.     Enter  Menteith,  Caithness,  Angus,  Lennox,  and 

Soldiers. 

Menteith.    The  English  power  is  near,  led  on  by  Malcolm, 
His  uncle  Siward,  and  the  good  Macduff. 
Revenges  burn  in  them ;  for  their  dear  causes 
Would  to  the  bleeding  and  the  grim  alarm 
Excite  the  mortified  man.^ 

Angus.  Near  Birnam  Wood 

Shall  we  well  meet  them ;  that  way  are  they  coming. 

Caithness.    Who  knows  if  Donalbain  be  with  his  brother  ? 

Lennox.    For  certain,  sir,  he  is  not :  I  have  a  file 
Of  all  the  gentry :  there  is  Siward's  son. 
And  many  unrough  2  youths  that  even  now 
Protest  3  their  first  of  manhood. 

Menteith.  What  does  the  tyrant  ? 

Caithness.    Great  Dimsinane  he  strongly  fortifies : 
Some  say  he's  mad ;  others  that  lesser  hate  him 
Do  call  it  vahant  fury :  but,  for  certain, 
He  cannot  buckle  his  distemper'd  cause 
Within  the  belt  of  rule.^ 

Angus.  Now  does  he  feel 

His  secret  murders  sticking  on  his  hands ; 
Now  minutely  ^  revolts  upbraid  his  faith-breach ; 
Those  he  commands  move  only  in  command. 
Nothing  in  love :  now  does  he  feel  his  title 
Hang  loose  about  him,  like  a  giant's  robe 
Upon  a  dwarfish  thief. 

Menteith.  Who  then  shall  blame 

His  pester'd  ^  senses  to  recoil  and  start, 

1  "  Mortified  man,"  i.e.,  an  ascetic;  a  man  dead  to  worldly  affairs. 

2  Unbearded.  3  Testify  to. 

*  "  He  cannot,"  etc.,  i.e.,  he  cannot  bind  his  disaffected  party  to  his  sway. 
5  Constantly  occurring.  6  Perplexed. 


90  SHAKESPEARE,  [act  v. 

When  all  that  is  within  him  does  condemn 
Itself  for  being  there  ? 

Caithness.  .         Well,  march  we  on, 

To  give  obedience  where  'tis  truly  ow*d : 
Meet  we  the  medicine  of  the  sickly  weal, 
And  with  him  pour  we  in  our  country's  purge 
Each  drop  of  us.^  ,  . 

Lennox,  Or  so  much  as  it  needs, 

To  dew  the  sovereign  flower  and  drown  the  weeds. 
Make  we  our  march  towards  Birnam.  \Exeunt^  marching. 

Scene   III.     Dunsinane,     A  Room  i?i  the  Castle, 

Enter  Macbeth,  Doctor,  «?/^  Attendants. 

Macbeth,    Bring  me  no  more  reports ;  let  them  fly  all : 
Till  Birnam  Wood  remove  to  Dunsinane, 
I  cannot  taint  with  fear.     What's  the  boy  Malcolm  ? 
Was  he  not  born  of  woman  ?     The  spirits  that  know 
All  mortal  consequences  have  pronounc'd  2  me  thus : 
"  Fear  not,  Macbeth ;  no  man  that's  born  of  woman 
Shall  e'er  have  power  upon  thee."     Then  fly,  false  thanes, 
And  mingle  with  the  English  epicures : 
The  mind  I  sway  by  '^  and  the  heart  I  bear 
Shall  never  sag  with  doubt  nor  shake  with  fear. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

The  devil  damn  thee  black,  thou  cream-fac'd  loon  ! 
Where  got'st  thou  that  goose  look  ? 

Servant,   There  is  ten  thousand — 

Macbeth,  Geese,  villain  ? 

Servant,  Soldiers,  sir. 

Macbeth,    Go  prick  thy  face,  and  over-red  thy  fear, 

1  "  Meet  we,"  etc.,  i.e.,   let  us  join  the  physician  (Malcolm),  and  with 
him,  to  cleanse  the  sickly  commonwealth,  shed  our  blood  to  the  last  drop. 

2  Declared  to.  3  ••  Sway  by,"  i.e.,  am  governed  by. 


SCENE  III.]  MACBETH.  91 

Thou  lily-liver'd  ^  boy.     What  soldiers,  patch  ?  2 
Death  of  thy  soul  !  those  Hnen  cheeks  of  thine 
Are  counselors  to  fear.     What  soldiers,  whey-face  ? 

Servant.    The  English  force,  so  please  you. 

Macbeth.    Take  thy  face  hence.  \Exit  Servant, 

Seyton  !  —  I  am  sick  at  heart, 

When  I  behold — Seyton,  I  say  ! — this  push^ 

Will  chair  me  ever,  or  disseat  me  now. 

I  have  liv'd  long  enough :  my  way  of  life 

Is  falPn  into  the  sear,  the  yellow  leaf ; 

And  that  which  should  accompany  old  age, 

As  honor,  love,  obedience,  troops  of  friends, 

I  must  not  look  to  have ;  but,  in  their  stead. 

Curses,  not  loud  but  deep,  mouth-honor,  breath, 

Which  the  poor  heart  would  fain  deny,  and  dare  not. 

Seyton  ! 

Enter  Seyton. 

Seyton.    What  is  your  gracious  pleasure  ? 

Macbeth.  What  news  more  ? 

Seyton.    All  is  confirm'd,  my  lord,  which  was  reported. 

Macbeth.    Fll  fight  till  from  my  bones  my  flesh  be  hack'd. 
Give  me  my  armor. 

Seyton.  'Tis  not  needed  yet. 

Macbeth.    I'll  put  it  on. 
Send  out  more  horses ;  skirr  ^  the  country  round ; 
Hang  those  that  talk  of  fear.     Give  me  mine  armor. 
How  does  your  patient,  doctor  ? 

Doctor.  Not  so  sick,  my  lord, 

As  she  is  troubled  with  thick-coming  fancies, 
That  keep  her  from  her  rest. 

Macbeth,  Cure  her  of  that. 

Canst  thou  not  minister  to  a  mind  diseas'd, 

1  Cowardly.     Formerly  the  liver  was  regarded  as  the  seat  of  the  passions 
and  emotions  generally. 

2  Stupid  fool.  3  Onset.  *  Scour. 


92  SHAKESPEARE.  [act  v. 

Pluck  from  the  memory  a  rooted  sorrow, 
Raze  out  the  written  troubles  of  the  brain 
And  with  some  sweet  oblivious  antidote 
Cleanse  the  stuff'd  bosom  of  that  perilous  stuff 
Which  weighs  upon  the  heart  ? 

Doctor,  Therein  the  patient 

Must  minister  to  himself. 

Macbeth,    Throw  physic  to  the  dogs;  I'll  none  of  it. — 
Come,  put  mine  armor  on ;  give  me  my  staff.^  — 
Seyton,  send  out.  —  Doctor,  the  thanes  fly  from  me. — 
Come,  sir,  dispatch.*-^  —  If  thou  couldst,  doctor,  cast 
The  water  of  my  land,  find  her  disease, 
And  purge  it  to  a  sound  and  pristine  health, 
I  would  applaud  thee  to  the  very  echo. 
That  should  applaud  again.  —  PuU't  off,  I  say.^  — 
What  rhubarb,  senna,  or  what  purgative  drug, 
Would  scour  these  English  hence  ?     Hear'st  thou  of  them  ? 

Doctor.    Ay,  my  good  lord ;  your  royal  preparation 
Makes  us  hear  something. 

Macbeth.  Bring  it  after  me.  — 

I  will  not  be  afraid  of  death  and  bane. 
Till  Birnam  Forest  come  to  Dunsinane. 

Doctor.     \Aside\  Were  I  from  Dunsinane  away  and  clear. 
Profit  again  should  hardly  draw  me  here.  \Exeunt. 

Scene  IV.      Country  near  Birnam   Wood. 

Drum  and  colors.     Enter  Malcolm,  old  Siward  and  his  Son,  Macduff, 
Menteith,  Caithness,  Angus,  Lennox,  Ross,  and  Soldiers,  marching. 

Malcolm.    Cousins,  I  hope  the  days  are  near  at  hand 
That  chambers  will  be  safe. 

1  Lance. 

2  "  Come,  sir,  dispatch,"  addressing  the  attendant  who  is'  putting  on  the 
armor. 

3  **  Pull't  off,  I  say,"  i.e.,  the  armor,  or  some  part  of  it,  to  which  Macbeth 
refers  a  few  lines  below, —  "  Bring  it  after  me," 


SCENE  v.]  MACBETH.  93 

Menteith,  We  doubt  it  nothing. 

Siward.    What  wood  is  this  before  us  ? 

Menteith.  The  wood  of  Birnam. 

Malcolm.    Let  every  soldier  hew  him  down  a  bough 
And  bear't  before  him ;  thereby  shall  we  shadow 
The  numbers  of  our  host,  and  make  discovery 
Err  in  report  of  us. 

Soldiers,  It  shall  be  done. 

Siward,    We  learn  no  other  but  the  confident  tyrant 
Keeps  still  in  Dunsinane,  and  will  endure 
Our  setting  down  before't.^ 

Malcolm,  'Tis  his  main  hope : 

For  where  there  is  advantage  to  be  ta'en, 
Both  more  and  less  have  given  him  the  revolt, 
And  none  serve  with  him  but  constrained  things 
Whose  hearts  are  absent  too. 

Macduff.  Let  our  just  censures 

Attend  the  true  event,  and  put  we  on 
Industrious  soldiership.^ 

Siivard.  The  time  approaches 

That  will  with  due  decision  make  us  know 
What  we  shall  say  we  have  and  what  we  owe. 
Thoughts  speculative  their  unsure  hopes  relate. 
But  certain  issue  strokes  must  arbitrate : 
Towards  which  advance  the  war.  [Exeunt,  marching. 

Scene  V.     Dunsinane.      Within  the  Castle. 

Enter  Macbeth,  Seyton,  and  Soldiers,  with  drum  and  colors. 

Macbeth.    Hang  out  our  banners  on  the  outward  walls ; 
The  cry  is  still,  "  They  come  !  "     Our  castle's  strength 

1  "  Keeps  still,"  etc.,   i.e.,  intrenched  in  his  castle  of  Dunsinane,   will 
stand  a  siege  from  us. 

2  **  Let  our  just  censures,"  etc.,  i.e.,  let  us  act  the  part  of  true  soldiers, 
that  the  event  may  prove  our  judgments  just. 


94  SHAKESPEARE.  [act  v. 

Will  laugh  a  siege  to  scorn :  here  let  them  lie 
Till  famine  and  the  ague  eat  them  up : 
Were  they  not  forc'd  ^  with  those  that  should  be  ours, 
We  might  have  met  them  dareful,  beard  to  beard, 
And  beat  them  backward  home.  \A.  cry  of  women  within. 

What  is  that  noise  ? 
Seyion.    It  is  the  cry  of  women,  my  good  lord.  \Exit, 

Macbeth.    I  have  almost  forgot  the  taste  of  fears : 
The  time  has  been,  my  senses  would  have  cool'd 
To  hear  a  night-shriek ;  and  my  fell  of  hair  ^ 
Would  at  a  dismal  treatise  ^  rouse  and  stir 
As  life  were  in't.     I  have  supp'd  full  with  horrors ; 
Direness,  familiar  to  my  slaughterous  thoughts, 
Cannot  once  start  me. 

Reenter    Seyton. 

Wherefore  was  that  cry  ? 

Seyton.    The  queen,  my  lord,  is  dead. 

Macbeth.    She  should  have  died  hereafter ; 
There  would  have  been  a  time  for  such  a  word. 
To-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow. 
Creeps  in  this  petty  pace  from  day  to  day 
To  the  last  syllable  of  recorded  time. 
And  all  our  yesterdays  have  lighted  fools 
The  way  to  dusty  death.     Out,  out,  brief  candle  ! 
Life's  but  a  walking  shadow,  a  poor  player 
That  struts  and  frets  his  hour  upon  the  stage 
And  then  is  heard  no  more :  it  is  a  tale 
Told  by  an  idiot,  full  of  sound  and  fury, 
Signifying  nothing. 

Enter  a   Messenger. 

Thou  com'st  to  use  thy  tongue ;  thy  story  quickly. 
Messenger.    Gracious  my  lord, 

1  Reenforced.  2  "  Fell  of  hair,*'  i.e.,  scalp  with  the  hair  on  it. 

S  "  Dismal  treatise,"  i.e.,  blood-curdling  story. 


SCENE  VI.]  MACBETH,  95 

I  should  report  that  which  I  say  I  saw, 
But  know  not  how  to  do  it. 

Macbeth.  Well,  say,  sir. 

Messenger.    As  I  did  stand  my  watch  upon  the  hill, 
I  look'd  toward  Birnam,  and  anon,  methought, 
The  wood  began  to  move. 

Macbeth.  Liar  and  slave  ! 

Messefiger.    Let  me  endure  your  wrath,  if't  be  not  so: 
Within  this  three  mile  may  you  see  it  coming ; 
I  say,  a  moving  grove. 

Macbeth.  If  thou  speak'st  false, 

Upon  the  next  tree  shalt  thou  hang  alive. 
Till  famine  cling  1  thee :  if  thy  speech  be  sooth, 
I  care  not  if  thou  dost  for  me  as  much. 
I  pall  2  in  resolution,  and  begin 
To  doubt  the  equivocation  of  the  fiend 
That  lies  hke  truth :  *'  Fear  not  till  Birnam  Wood 
Do  come  to  Dunsinane :  "  and  now  a  wood 
Comes  toward  Dunsinane.      Arm,  arm,  and  out  ! 
If  this  which  he  avouches  does  appear. 
There  is  nor  flying  hence  nor  tarrying  here. 
I  'gin  to  be  aweary  of  the  sun, 

And  wish  the  estate  o'  the  world  were  now  undone. 
Ring  the  alarum  bell  !      Blow,  wind  !  come,  wrack  !  ^ 
At  least  we'll  die  with  harness  ^  on  our  back.  \Exeunt. 

Scene  VI.     Dunsinane.     Before  the  Castle. 

Drum  and  colors.     Enter  Malcolm,  old  Siward,   Macduff,  and  their 
Army,   with    boughs. 

Malcolm.    Now  near  enough :  your  leavy  screens  throw  down, 
And  show  like  those  you  are.      You,  worthy  uncle, 

1  Wither,  shrivel  up,  a  signification  of  "  cling"  which  it  still  has  in  the 
north  of  England. 

2  Lose  heart.  3  Ruin.  *  Armor. 


q6  SHAKESPEARE.  [act  v 

Shall,  with  my  cousin,  your  right-noble  son, 
Lead  our  first  battle :  ^  worthy  Macduff  and  we 
Shall  take  upon's  what  else  remains  to  do, 
According  to  our  order. 

Siward.  Fare  you  well. 

Do  we  but  find  the  tyrant's  power  to-night, 
Let  us  be  beaten,  if  we  cannot  fight. 

Macduff.    Make  all  our  trumpets  speak ;  give  them  all  breath. 
Those  clamorous  harbingers  ^  of  blood  and  death.  [Exeunt. 


Scene  VII.     Another  Part  of  the  Field, 

Alarums.     Enter  Macbeth. 

Macbeth.    They  have  tied  me  to  a  stake ;  I  cannot  fly, 
But,  bearhke,  I  must  fight  the  course.^     What's  he 
That  was  not  born  of  woman  ?     Such  a  one 
Am  I  to  fear,  or  none. 

Enter  young  Siward. 

Young  Siward.    What  is  thy  name  ? 

Macbeth.  Thou'lt  be  afraid  to  hear  it. 

Young  Siward.  No ;  though  thou  call'st  thyself  a  hotter  name 
Than  any  is  in  hell. 

Macbeth.  My  name's  Macbeth. 

Young  Siward.  The  devil  himself  could  not  pronounce  a  title 
More  hateful  to  mine  ear. 

Macbeth.  No,  nor  more  fearful. 

Young  Siward.    Thou  liest,  abhorred  tyrant ;  with  my  sword 
I'll  prove  the  He  thou  speak'st. 

\They  fight ^  and  young  Siward  is  slain. 

*  Battalion.  2  Announcers  (see  Note  4,  p.  25). 

3  '*  They  have  tied,"  etc.  Bear-baiting  was  a  popular  amusement  in 
England  in  Shakespeare's  time.  The  bear  was  tied  to  a  stake,  and  a  certain 
number  of  dogs  set  on  him  at  intervals.     Each  attack  was  called  a  course. 


SCENE  VIII.]  MACBETH.  97 

Macbeth.  Thou  wast  born  of  woman. 

But  swords  I  smile  at,  weapons  laugh  to  scorn, 
Brandish'd  by  man  that's  of  a  woman  born.  \Exit, 

Alaru77is.     Enter  Macduff. 

Macduff.    That  way  the  noise  is.     Tyrant,  show  thy  face  ! 
If  thou  be'st  slain  and  with  no  stroke  of  mine, 
My  wife  and  children's  ghosts  will  haunt  me  still. 
I  cannot  strike  at  wretched  kerns,i  whose  arms 
Are  hir'd  to  bear  their  staves  i^  either  thou,  Macbeth, 
Or  else  my  sword  with  an  unbatter'd  edge 
I  sheathe  again  undeeded.     There  thou  shouldst  be ; 
By  this  great  clatter,  one  of  greatest  note 
Seems  bruited.^     Let  me  find  him.  Fortune  ! 
And  more  I  beg  not.  \Exit.     Alarums. 

Enter  Malcolm  and  old  Siward. 

Siward.    This  way,  my  lord  ;  the  castle's  gently  rendered : 
The  tyrant's  people  on  both  sides  do  fight ; 
The  noble  thanes  do  bravely  in  the  war ; 
The  day  almost  itself  professes  yours, 
And  little  is  to  do. 

Malcolm.  We  have  met  with  foes 

That  strike  beside  us. 

Siward.  Enter,  sir,  the  castle.    [Exeunt.   Alarums, 

Scene  VIII.     Another  Part  of  the  Field. 
Enter  Macbeth. 

Macbeth.    Why  should  I  play  the  Roman  fooH  and  die 
On  mine  own  sword  ?     Whiles  I  see  lives,  the  gashes 
Do  better  upon  them. 

1  '*  Kerns  "  is  used  here  contemptuously  for  the  common  soldiers  of  Mac- 
beth's  army  (see  Note  4,  p.  14). 

2  Lances.  3  Hailed  with  great  clamor. 

*  "  Roman  fool,"  alluding,  probably,  to  Cato  or  Marcus  Brutus. 
7 


98  SHAKESPEARE.  [act  v. 

Enter  Macduff. 

Macduff,  Turn,  hell-hound,  turn  ! 

Macbeth.    Of  all  men  else  I  have  avoided  thee : 
But  get  thee  back ;  my  soul  is  too  much  charg'd 
With  blood  of  thine  already. 

Macduff.  I  have  no  words : 

My  voice  is  in  my  sword,  thou  bloodier  villain 
Than  terms  can  give  thee  out  !  \They  fight. 

Macbeth.  Thou  losest  labor : 

As  easy  mayst  thou  the  intrenchant  ^  air 
With  thy  keen  sword  impress  as  make  me  bleed: 
Let  fall  thy  blade  on  vulnerable  crests ; 
I  bear  a  charmed  life,  which  must  not  yield 
To  one  of  woman  born. 

Macduff.  Despair  thy  charm ; 

And  let  the  angel  ^  whom  thou  still  hast  serv'd 
Tell  thee,  Macduff  was  from  his  mother's  womb 
Untimely  ripp'd. 

Macbeth.   Accursed  be  that  tongue  that  tells  me  so, 
For  it  hath  cow'd  my  better  part  of  man  ! 
And  be  these  juggling  fiends  no  more  believed, 
That  palter  ^  with  us  in  a  double  sense ; 
That  keep  the  word  of  promise  to  our  ear. 
And  break  it  to  our  hope.     I'll  not  fight  with  thee. 

Macduff.    Then  yield  thee,  coward. 
And  Hve  to  be  the  show  and  gaze  o'  the  time : 
We'll  have  thee,  as  our  rarer  monsters  are, 
Painted  upon  a  pole,  and  underwrit, 
*'  Here  may  you  see  the  tyrant." 

Macbeth.  I  will  not  yield 

To  kiss  the  ground  before  young  Malcolm's  feet, 

1  Incapable  of  receiving  a  wound. 

2  Demon.    It  was  the  belief  of  the  ancients  that  every  man  was  controlled 
for  good  or  evil  by  his  attendant  genius  or  demon  (see  Note  3,  p.  50). 

3  Equivocate. 


SCENE  VIII.]  MACBETH,  99 

And  to  be  baited  ^  with  the  rabble's  curse. 

Though  Birnam  Wood  be  come  to  Dunsinane, 

And  thou  oppos'd,  being  of  no  woman  born, 

Yet  I  will  try  the  last.     Before  my  body 

I  throw  my  warlike  shield.     Lay  on,  Macduff, 

And  damn'd  be  him  that  first  cries,  "  Hold,  enough  ! " 

\Exeu7it^  fighting.     Alarums, 


Retreat.     Flourish,    Enter,  with  drum  and  colors,  Malcolm,  old  Siward, 
Ross,  the  other  Thanes,  and  Soldiers. 

Malcolm,    I  would  the  friends  we  miss  were  safe  arriv'd. 

Siward,    Some  must  go  off :  and  yet,  by  these  I  see,^ 
So  great  a  day  as  this  is  cheaply  bought. 

Malcolm.    Macduff  is  missing,  and  your  noble  son. 

Ross.    Your  son,  my  lord,  has  paid  a  soldier's  debt : 
He  only  liv'd  but  till  he  was  a  man ; 
The  which  no  sooner  had  his  prowess  confirmed 
In  the  unshrinking  station  where  he  fought. 
But  like  a  man  he  died. 

Siward.  Then  he  is  dead  ? 

Ross.    Ay,  and  brought  off  the  field  :  your  cause  of  sorrow 
Must  not  be  measur'd  by  his  worth,  for  then 
It  hath  no  end. 

Siward.  Had  he  his  hurts  before  ? 

Ross.    Ay,  on  the  front. 

Siward.  Why  then,  God's  soldier  be  he  ! 

Had  I  as  many  sons  as  I  have  hairs, 
I  would  not  wish  them  to  a  fairer  death : 
And  so,  his  knell  is  knoll'd. 

Malcolm,  He's  worth  more  sorrow, 

And  that  I'll  spend  for  him. 

1  Snarled  at ;  worried,  as  by  dogs. 

2  **  Some  must,"  etc.,  i.e.,  some  must  die;  and  yet,  by  the  full  ranks  I 
see  around  us,  etc. 


lOO  SHAKESPEARE.  [act  v. 

Siward,  He's  worth  no  more : 

They  say  he  parted  well,  and  paid  his  score : 
And  so,  God  be  with  him  !      Here  comes  newer  comfort. 

Reenter  Macduff,  with  Macbeth's  head. 

Macduff.    Hail,  King  !  for  so  thou  art :  behold,  where  stands 
The  usurper's  cursed  head :  the  time  is  free. 
I  see  thee  compass'd  with  thy  kingdom's  pearl,i 
That  speak  my  salutation  in  their  minds ; 
Whose  voices  I  desire  aloud  with  mine : 
Hail,  King  of  Scotland  ! 

All.  Hail,  King  of  Scotland  !        [Flourish. 

Malcolm.    We  shall  not  spend  a  large  expense  of  time 
Before  we  reckon  with  your  several  loves, 
And  make  us  even  with  you.     My  thanes  and  kinsmen, 
Henceforth  be  earls,  the  first  that  ever  Scotland 
In  such  an  honor  nam'd.     What's  more  to  do. 
Which  would  be  planted  newly  with  the  time, 
As  calling  home  our  exil'd  friends  abroad 
That  fled  the  snares  of  watchful  tyranny ; 
Producing  forth  the  cruel  ministers 
Of  this  dead  butcher  and  his  fiendlike  queen. 
Who,  as  'tis  thought,  by  self  and  violent  hands 
Took  off  her  life ;  this,  and  what  needful  else 
That  calls  upon  us,  by  the  grace  of  Grace, 
We  will  perform  in  measure,  time,  and  place : 
So,  thanks  to  all  at  once  and  to  each  one. 
Whom  we  invite  to  see  us  crown'd  at  Scone. 

[Flourish,     Exeunt, 

1  **  Thy  kingdom's  pearl,"  i.e.,  the  nobility  of  Scotland  as  a  body. 


SUGGESTIONS   FOR   THE   STUDY   OF 
SHAKESPEARE. 

Most  people  can  read  Shakespeare,  and  *^have  some  aim  what  he 
would  work  them  to."  But  anything  like  a  full  appreciation  of  the 
riches  within  his  greater  plays  comes  only  as  a  reward  for  patient  and 
intelligent  study.  Mere  reading,  in  the  cursory  and  superficial  sense 
of  the  term,  will  not  avail ;  sympathetic,  earnest,  and  studious  read- 
ing is  the  price  we  must  pay  for  appreciating  the  greatest  of  poets. 

A  play  of  Shakespeare  must  be  regarded,  first  of  all,  as  a  story. 
As  such,  it  must  be  understood  in  its  individual  parts,  even  to  its 
words  and  phrases.  These  minor  parts  have  a  relation  to  one  another 
like  that  of  the  members  of  an  organism.  And  the  failure  to  see 
these  relations  is  failure  to  understand  the  play.  Character,  action, 
and  situation  grow  out  of  one  another,  and  are  related  to  one  another 
in  an  essential  and  vital  manner.  The  story  must  therefore  be  seen 
as  a  growth,  a  development.  In  this  unity  of  purpose  and  tendency, 
as  well  as  in  its  creative  originality  and  force  or  beauty  of  diction,  lies 
its  claim  to  greatness. 

As  poetry  deals  with  the  universal  elements  in  human  life,  the 
reader  must  see  in  the  play  the  concrete  representation  of  the  laws 
to  which  his  own  life  is  subject.  He  must  see  the  characters  as  em- 
bodying motives  and  passions  like  his  own.  He  must  see  the  circum- 
stances under  which  they  live  as  making  up  a  world  governed  by  laws 
not  essentially  different  from  those  of  the  world  in  which  he  himself 
lives.  He  must  enter  into  the  story  with  an  imaginative  sympathy 
that  makes  him  seem  almost  a  participant  in  the  action. 

The  reader  must  not  be  drawn  aside  into  trivial  interests  in  those 
things  that  are  not  a  vital  part  of  the  poet's  conception.  Historical  and 
other  allusions,  philological  curiosities  of  grammar  and  diction,  and 


102  SHAKESPEARE. 

all  such  matters,  must  be  kept  strictly  in  their  subordinate  place. 
They  are  to  be  studied  when  they  afford  a  key  to  the  meaning  of 
the  passage  in  which  they  stand;  but  they  are  not  to  be  considered 
as  the  thii^gs  of  ultimate  value.  Shakespeare  is  a  poet,  not  a  philo- 
logical gymnasium. 

The  questions  given  in  the  following  pages  are  intended  to  suggest 
such  lines  of  thought  and  discussion  as  will  help  the  student  in  the 
appreciative  reading  of  the  play.  It  is  not  assumed  that  they  are 
the  best  questions  that  may  be  asked,  nor  that  they  will,  as  they 
stand,  best  fit  the  needs  of  every  class.  The  teacher  must  know  the 
particular  needs  of  his  class,  and  select  from  the  questions  those  which 
he  regards  as  most  helpful.  Every  teacher  finds,  however,  that 
questions  must  be  asked  if  he  would  have  his  pupils  read  with  eyes 
open  and  minds  alert. 

But  it  would  be  a  great  mistake  to  allow  these  or  any  other  ques- 
tions to  obstruct  the  free  communion  of  the  pupils  with  the  poet. 
The  play  should  first  be  read  through  as  one  reads  any  book,  without 
other  study  than  is  necessary  to  get  the  general  drift  and  meaning  of 
the  story.  Then  the  detailed  study,  with  the  help  of  the  questions, 
may  begin.  Pupils  should  be  held  responsible  for  the  meanings  of 
the  words  as  a  matter  of  course.  Allusions  should  be  treated  likewise, 
where  they  involve  the  sense  of  the  passage.  But  the  most  of  the 
work  at  this  stage  of  study  will  be  upon  the  significance  and  relations 
to  one  another  of  the  parts  of  the  play.  After  this  analytic  work  — 
which  will  interest  and  benefit  the  pupil  just  in  proportion  as  it  reveals 
to  him  things  that  he  would  not  have  found  out  for  himself  and 
that  bring  the  play  within  the  realm  of  ideas  and  ideals  which  he 
has  or  for  which  he  is  ready  —  will  come  the  final  reading  of  the  play 
to  enable  the  student  to  complete  his  synthesis  of  the  whole.  He 
should  now  be  able  to  see  the  career  of  Macbeth,  from  its  beginning 
with  criminally  ambitious  thoughts,  through  its  development  under 
the  influence  of  fear  and  crime,  to  its  end  in  utter  moral  and  material 
ruin ;  the  part  of  Macduff  in  the  play  from  his  first  challenge  of  Mac- 
beth's  rash  act  to  the  point  where  he  dominates  the  action ;  the  place 
of  Lady  Macbeth,  at  first  strong  in  resolution,  and  at  last  broken 
utterly  by  the  weight  of  her  guilt;  the  motives  and  the  fears  that 
incite  to  action ;  the  laws  that  are  at  first  set  at  naught,  and  that 
reassert  themselves  so  sternly:  these,  and  many  other  interesting 
things,  the  student  will  realize  as  making  up  the  meaning  and  the 
power  of  the  play. 


MACBETH.  103 

Much  of  the  poetry  and  the  power  of  any  great  work  of  literature 
cannot  be  taught.  It  may  be  felt ;  but  it  can  be  communicated  only 
by  the  author  himself,  and  only  to  those  who  can  in  some  measure 
enter  into  his  spirit.  The  teacher  may,  indeed,  help  the  pupil  to 
create  in  his  mind  the  intellectual  conditions  necessary  to  such  feeling. 
He  may  infect  the  pupil  with  some  of  the  contagion  of  his  own  ad- 
miration. But  he  cannot  enforce  appreciation.  He  must  be  con- 
tent with  seeking  to  foster  it.  ^ 

The  following  books  will  be  found  especially  helpful  in  the  teaching 
of  Shakespeare  in  the  schools:  Dowden's  '^Shakespeare  Primer" 
(American  Book  Co.);  Freytag's  '^  Technique  of  the  Drama"  (Scott, 
Foresman  &  Co.) ;  Butcher's  *'  Aristotle's  Theory  of  Poetry  and  Fine 
Art"  (Macmillan).  I  would  especially  recommend  the  *' Variorum 
Edition  of  Macbeth,"  by  Dr.  Furness  (Lippincott).  If  possible,  "have 
it  accessible  to  the  class.  No  student  of  this  play  can  do  without 
the  monumental  work  of  Dr.  Furness. 


MACBETH. 

First  read  the  play  through  for  its  story  as  you  would  read  any 
book.  Do  not,  by  going  first  to  these  notes,  allow  them  to  get  be- 
tween you  and  the  poet.  As  you  read  the  play,  notice  what  sort  of 
characters,  motives,  and  actions  develop  the  story  to  the  end.  Use 
the  notes  at  the  foot  of  the  pages  and  the  dictionary  wherever  they 
are  necessary  to  an  understanding  of  the  text.  After  the  first  reading 
of  the  play,  read  the  critical  comments  given  in  the  Introduction  to 
this  volume,  pp.  3-12  inclusive;  but  hold  yourself  ready  to  form  in- 
dependent judgments. 

ACT  I. 

Scene  I.  i.  In  what  kind  of  natural  environment  does  the  action 
begin  ? 

2.  What  other  sort  of  turmoil  is  also  in  progress  ? 

3.  What  associations  do  we  connect  with  witches  —  good  or  evil? 

4.  What  is  the  effect  upon  us  of  their  intention  ''to  meet  with 
Macbeth  "  ? 

5.  What  do  they  mean  by  **  Fair  is  foul,  and  foul  is  fair  "  ? 

6.  Why  are  they  associated  with  *'  Graymalkin"  and  "Paddock"? 

7.  What  kind  of  action  does  this  opening  scene  lead  us  to  expect  ? 

8.  Did  the  people  of  Shakespeare's  time  believe  in  witches?  (See 
Century  Dictionary  under  witch  and  witchcraft, ) 

Scene  II.     i.  How  is  this  scene  linked  to  the  preceding  scene? 

2.  What  is  the  state  of  the  country  at  the  opening  of  the  play? 

3.  Who  are  the  leaders  of  the  rebellion? 

4.  Who  are  the  leaders  of  the  loyal  party  ? 

5.  In  what  way  does  the  sergeant  regard  Macbeth? 

104 


ACT  I.  sc.  III.]  MACBETH.  105 

6.  In  what  tone  does  Ross  speak  of  him  a  moment  later? 

7.  How  does  this  difference  suggest  Macbeth's  increasing  promi- 
nence ? 

8.  What  impression  do  we  get  of  Duncan  ?  Was  it  the  custom  of 
kings  at  that  time  to  remain  at  a  distance  from  the  battle  ? 

9.  How  does  this  scene  prepare  us  for  the  entrance  of  Macbeth  ? 

10.  Why  is  the  introduction  of  the  principal  character  delayed? 
Compare  the  method  of  ^'Julius  Caesar,"  **  Hamlet,"  and  ''King 
Lear." 

Scene  III.  i.  In  what  kind  of  exploits  are  the  witches  wont  to 
engage  ?     How  does  this  reveal  their  character  ? 

2.  What  supernatural  powers  have  they  ? 

3.  What  limit  is  put  upon  their  power  to  do  harm  ? 

4.  What  qualities  are  suggested  by  their  appearance?  By  their 
style  of  speaking  ? 

5.  By  what  is  Macbeth's  approach  announced? 

6.  How  are  we  impressed  by  their  coming  out  to  meet  him  ? 

7.  Of  what  are  Macbeth  and  Banquo  talking  upon  their  entrance  ? 

8.  How  do  the  announcements  of  the  witches  at  once  affect  Mac- 
beth ?     Why  does  he  **  start,  and  seem  to  fear  "  ? 

9.  Has  the  prophecy  contained  any  suggestion  of  crime  ? 

10.  How  is  Banquo  affected? 

11.  Which  of  the  two  displays  the  greater  eagerness  to  know  more  ? 

12.  Note  the  difference  in  the  nature  of  the  comments  made  by 
them  after  the  witches  disappear. 

13.  Note  the  prompt  fulfillment  of  a  part  of  the  prophecy.  What 
effect  does  it  have  upon  us  ? 

14.  How  does  Macbeth  receive  the  news  ?     How  does  Banquo  ? 

15.  What  warning  does  Banquo  give  him  ? 

16.  What  evidence  is  there  in  this  scene  of  Macbeth's  vivid  imagi- 
nation ? 

17.  Has  he  ever  entertained  treasonous  thoughts  before? 

18.  Is  there  any  scruple  of  conscience  mingled  with  his  evil  thoughts? 

19.  How  does  he  seem  already  set  apart  from  his  fellows  ?  See  pp. 
22,  23. 

20.  Where  does  he  show  the  manners  of  the  courtier?  Is  he 
already  anticipating  the  need  of  them? 

21.  At  what  juncture  in  the  fortunes  of  Macbeth  have  the  witches 
come  to  him  ?     What  is  the  effect  of  this  upon  him  ? 


io6  SHAKESPEARE.  [act  i.  sc.  iv.,  v. 

22.  Do  the  witches  now  appear  to  be  a  mere  poetic  fancy,  or  do 
they  typify  anything  in  human  experience? 

23.  At  what  point  in  this  scene  does  the  **  exciting  force,"  or 
motive,  of  the  play  enter? 

24.  Does  it  come  from  within  the  hero,  or  from  an  external  source  ? 

Scene  IV.  i.  In  what  Hght  does  the  king's  character  again  ap- 
pear?    Does  he  seem  fit  to  be  a  leader  and  ruler  of  men  ? 

2.  Why  do  you  suppose  the  kingdom  was  in  revolt  ? 

3.  Does  this  in  any  way  affect  our  feeling  regarding  Macbeth's  am- 
bition to  be  king  ? 

4.  Note  the  motive  for  his  ambition  that  Macbeth  reveals  in 
Scenes  III.,  IV.,  V.,  and  VII.  of  Act  I.  Compare  the  motives  of 
Brutus  in  '*  Julius  Caesar,"  Act  I.,  Scene  II.  ;  Act  II.,  Scene  I.,  and 
elsewhere. 

5.  Compare  the  spirit  of  the  king's  speeches  to  Macbeth  with  Mac- 
beth's replies.     Is  there  any  evidence  of  constraint  in  the  latter? 

6.  What  precipitates  Macbeth's  resolution?  Compare  his  de- 
termination to  wait  for  chance  to  crown  him  king  (Scene  III., 
p.  23). 

7.  Why  does  he  go  himself  to  announce  to  his  wife  the  coming 
of  the  king  ? 

8.  What  does  his  last  speech  show  of  his  purposes?  Note  the 
rapidity  with  which  they  have  developed. 

9.  Why  are  we  shown  so  much  of  Macbeth's  character  before  Lady 
Macbeth  appears  ? 

10.  What  strong  contrast  is  suggested  by  Duncan's  last  speech? 

11.  What  has  Banquo  been  saying  to  him? 

Scene  V.  i.  How  long  an  interval  has  elapsed  between  this  scene 
and  the  last  ? 

2.  Where  has  Macbeth  found  opportunity  to  write  the  letter? 

3.  What  does  it  contain  preceding  the  part  that  we  hear  Lady 
Macbeth  read  ? 

4.  Does  it  suggest  to  her  anything  that  it  does  not  say  ? 

5.  What  is  her  estimate  of  Macbeth's  character? 

6.  Does  she  know  him  accurately?  Does  it  seem  from  the  rest  of 
the  play  that  he  is  too  tender-hearted  ?  Or  may  the  phrase  '*  too  full 
of  the  milk  of  human  kindness  "  be  only  her  euphemism  for  hesita- 
tion, moral  cowardice,  or  lack  of  bloody  fierceness  ? 


ACT  I.  sc.  VI.,  VII.]  MACBETH,  1 07 

7.  What  traits  in  her  own  character  does  she  reveal  while  she 
analyzes  her  husband's? 

8.  Note  the  balanced  form  of  her  sentences.     What  is  the  effect  ? 

9.  Why  does  she  decide  to  assume  the  burden  of  the  deed? 

10.  Is  she  influenced  by  wifely  affection  or  by  ambition  ? 

11.  Note  the  title  Macbeth  gives  to  her  in  the  letter,  and  that  with 
which  she  greets  him  upon  his  arrival. 

12.  Why  has  the  poet  shown  the  strong  affection  existing  between 
them? 

13.  Why  does  Lady  Macbeth  exclaim  to  the  messenger,  **  Thou'rt 
mad  to  say  it "  ? 

14.  How  does  she  hasten  to  explain  her  exclamation  ? 

15.  Note  the  double  meaning  in  *^  He  brings  great  news." 

16.  Note  the  somber  beauty  of  the  speech  that  follows.  In  what 
does  its  force  consist  ? 

17.  Note  that  Macbeth  hints  at  the  murder  and  Lady  Macbeth 
openly  resolves  it. 

18.  What  does  she  expect  to  gain  by  the  crime? 

19.  In  what  particular  passages  is  the  mockery  of  this  hope  re- 
vealed ?  (See  Act  III.,  Scene  I.,  p.  50,  II.,  pp.  54-56,  and  IV., 
pp.  58-64;  Act  IV.,  Scene  I.,  pp.  70-73;  Act  V.,  Scenes  L,  II.,  III., 
v.,  VIL,  and  VIII.) 

20.  Note  Macbeth's  inabihty  to  dissemble  successfully.  Where 
does  he  again  show  this  ? 

Scene  VI.  i.  Note  the  element  of  repose  in  this  scene.  Does  it 
afford  relief  or  suspense  ? 

2.  Has  Duncan  any  premonition  of  evil  ?  Compare  the  method  in 
*' JuUus  Csesar,"  Act  II.,  Scene  II. 

3.  What  feelings  are  most  prominent  in  Duncan's  speeches? 

4.  Why  does  Lady  Macbeth  dwell  so  much  upon  ^'honors"  and 
"duties"? 

5.  Why  is  Macbeth  absent? 

6.  Why  does  Lady  Macbeth  not  answer  the  king's  inquiry  about 
him? 

Scene  VII.  i.  How  long  is  the  interval  between  this  scene  and  the 
last? 

2.  What  considerations  move  Macbeth  for  and  against  the  crime  ? 

3.  Does  *' the  milk  of  human  kindness"  figure  largely  in  this 
soliloquy?     Does  conscience  ? 


io8  SHAKESPEARE,  [act  ii.  sc.  i. 

4.  Or  does  Macbeth  intentionally  shut  his  mind  to  the  promptings 
of  his  conscience  and  his  feeUngs,  and  try  to  fix  it  solely  upon  politic 
considerations?     Or  are  the  two  mingled? 

5.  Why  does  the  poet  show  us  these  long  mental  conflicts  and 
hesitations  before  the  crime  ? 

6.  How  should  we  regard  the  play  if  this  murder  were  committed 
out  of  hand  ? 

7.  Which  lines  of  Macbeth's  first  soliloquy  in  this  scene  are  a 
prophecy  of  his  future  career  ? 

8.  What  is  gained  by  making  Duncan's  character  appear  more 
noble  as  the  crime  comes  nearer  ? 

9.  Why  had  Macbeth  left  the  presence  of  the  king  ? 

10.  What  reason  does  he  give  for  resolving  to  ''proceed  no 
further  "  ?     What  is  his  real  reason  ? 

11.  How  does  Lady  Macbeth  again  bring  him  to  the  resolution? 

12.  Is  his  claim  of  manly  courage  a  just  one  ? 

13.  Has  she  a  just  sense  of  the  horror  of  the  crime  ? 

14.  Is  she  lacking  in  womanly  feeling  ?  Or  has  she  resolutely  put 
such  feeling  aside?  Compare  Scene  V.,  p.  27,  and  Act  II.,  Scene 
II.,  lines  I,  13,  14,  p.  37. 

15.  What  hght  does  this  scene  throw  upon  Macbeth's  thought 
of  the  murder  before  the  time  of  the  opening  of  the  play  ? 

16.  What  use  does  Lady  Macbeth  make  of  the  prophecy  of  the 
witches  ? 

17.  Does  she  answer  all  Macbeth's  objections  to  the  deed? 

18.  Note  the  point  at  which  she  retires  into  the  background. 

Sum  up  the  traits  of  character  that  have  appeared  in  the  hero  and 
heroine  in  Act  I.  What  motives  and  feelings  are  in  control  ?  To 
what  point  does  this  act  bring  the  action  of  the  play  ?  Why  is  it 
necessary  for  the  purposes  of  tragedy  that  the  hero  should  begin  by 
being  neither  wholly  good  nor  wholly  bad  ?  Note  the  rapidity  of  the 
action.     How  much  time  has  elapsed  since  the  opening  of  the  play  ? 

ACT  II. 

Scene  I.  i.  What  is  the  time  of  night?  How  is  the  approaching 
storm  indicated  ? 

2.  Why  does  Banquo  give  Fleance  his  sword? 

3.  What  does  he  mean  by  the  ''cursed  thoughts"? 


ACT  II.  sc.  II.]  MACBETH.  109 

4.  Why  does  he  call  for  his  sword  as  some  one  approaches  ? 

5.  Why  are  the  king^s  gift  and  his  ^'measureless  content"  men- 
tioned here  ? 

6.  Why  does  Banquo  refer  to  the  weird  sisters  ? 

7.  Does  Macbeth  answer  him  truthfully  ? 

8.  Of  what  would  he  talk  to  Banquo  ? 

9.  What  caution  does  Banquo  show  ?     Why  ? 

10.  What  leads  Macbeth  to  see  the  dagger? 

11.  How  does  this  quality  of  his  mind  help  to  make  the  drama 
more  tragic  ? 

12.  Note  the  effect  of  lines  6-18,  p.  36.     To  what  is  it  due? 

13.  Why  do  the  very  stones  seem  to  him  to  *'  prate  of  his  where- 
about "  ? 

14.  Who  sounded  the  bell  that  was  to  be  the  knell  of  Duncan  ? 

15.  Why  had  this  arrangement  been  made? 

Scene  II.     i.  Where  is  Macbeth  at  the  opening  of  this  scene? 

2.  What  does  it  show  of  Lady  Macbeth's  character  that  she  has 
taken  wine  to  make  her  bold?  Is  it  hardness  or  womanly  weakness  ? 
Does  this  have  any  bearing  on  the  sleep-walking  scene? 

3.  Note  how  the  brooding  horror  of  this  scene  is  intensified  by  the 
shrieking  of  the  owl,  by  the  talking  of  the  grooms  in  their  sleep,  and 
by  the  voice  that  Macbeth  hears. 

4.  What  touch  of  womanliness  does  Lady  Macbeth  show  here  just 
before  Macbeth  enters  ? 

5.  In  what  ways  does  he  show  himself  to  be  completely  unnerved? 

6.  Why  does  he  harp  upon  '*  I  could  not  say  '  Amen  '  "  ? 

7.  Does  Lady  Macbeth  again  assume  control  ? 

8.  Which  shows  greater  self-possession  ? 

9.  What  foreshadowing  of  the  nature  of  their  punishment  is  seen 
here  ?     Note  how  his  imagination  already  torments  him. 

10.  Compare  the  ways  in  which  each  speaks  of  the  blood.  What 
difference  does  it  suggest?     (See  Act  V.,  Scene  I.,  pp.  87,  88.) 

11.  Why  has  she  now  the  courage  to  finish  what  he  dared  not? 

12.  What  is  the  effect  upon  us  of  the  knocking? 

13.  Note  the  peculiar  effectiveness  of  lines  14-18,  p.  39. 

14.  Is  it  fear  alone,  or  remorse  also,  that  Macbeth  and  Lady  Mac- 
beth show?     (See  especially  the  last  two  lines  of  this  scene.) 

15.  What  irony  is  suggested  by  Lady  Macbeth's  saying,  ''A  little 
water  clears  us  of  this  deed"?     Compare  Act  V.,  Scene  i. 


no  SHAKESPEARE.  [act  ii.  sc.  hi.,  iv. 

1 6.  What  things  here  prepare  us  for  the  sleep-walking  scene? 

17.  Why  is  the  actual  scene  of  the  murder  not  on  the  stage? 

Scene  III.     i.  What  is  the  effect  of  this  scene? 

2.  What  does  the  porter  whimsically  imagine  himself  to  be? 

3.  How  does  this  conceit  fit  in  with  the  conditions  ? 

4.  Why  does  Macbeth  enter  so  soon? 

5.  Why  does  he  answer  so  briefly? 

6.  Why  does  he  not  himself  call  Duncan  ? 

7.  Note  the  use  of  tumult  in  nature  accompanying  crime.  Com- 
pare '*  Julius  Caesar,"  Act  I.,  Scene  III. 

8.  Compare  Macbeth's  and  Lennox's  speeches  when  Macduff  tells 
of  the  murder.     How  does  the  former  show  that  he  knows? 

9.  See  the  openness  and  vigor  that  belong  to  Macduff.  For  what 
part  in  the  drama  do  these  qualities  fit  him  ? 

10.  Does  Lady  Macbeth  feign  well  when  she  enters? 

11.  Does  Macbeth's  lamentation  have  the  true  ring? 

12.  When  had  Macbeth  gone  in  and  murdered  the  grooms? 

13.  Was  it  wisely  done? 

14.  Why  does  Macduff  demand  his  reason  for  it? 

15.  Was  this  murder  less  atrocious  than  that  of  the  king?  Why 
does  the  poet  treat  it  with  such  indifference  ? 

16.  How  is  the  attention  now  distracted  from  Macbeth  ? 

17.  Was  Lady  Macbeth's  fainting  real  or  assumed?  Was  there 
anything  in  the  scene  to  make  her  swoon? 

18.  Why  do  the  king's  sons  flee  ? 

19.  Why  does  Banquo  promptly  assert  his  loyalty  and  call  for 
question  of  **  this  bloody  piece  of  work  "  ? 

20.  Compare  Macduffs  part  here  with  his  part  later  in  the  play. 

Scene  IV.  i.  What  does  this  scene  contribute  to  our  impressions 
of  the  events  of  the  night  ?  Compare  it  with  the  effect  of  the  knock- 
ing at  the  gate. 

2.  Is  Macduff  deceived? 

3.  Why  does  he  not  go  to  see  Macbeth  crowned? 

4.  Why  is  it  necessary  to  the  tragedy  that  Macbeth  should  gain  his 
object  ? 

To  what  point  has  this  act  brought  the  action  of  the  play  ?  What 
beginning  is  there  of  a  force  likely  to  prove  hostile  or  even  dangerous 
to  Macbeth?  By  what  means  has  this  force  been  brought  into 
existence  ? 


ACT  III.  sc.  I.,  II.]  MACBETH. 


ACT   III. 


Scene  I.     i.  How  much  time  has  elapsed  between  Acts  II.  and  III.  ? 

2.  How  does  Banquo  voice  the  feeUng  against  Macbeth  ? 

3.  How  does  he  view  his  own  hopes  of  good  from  the  prophecy  of 
the  witches?     Why  does  he  check  himself? 

4.  What  is  there  in  this  speech  to  prepare  us  for  Macbeth's  later 
attitude  toward  him  ? 

5.  What  is  that  attitude? 

6.  Why  is  Macbeth  about  to  give  a  feast  to  the  nobles?  What 
does  he  hope  to  determine  or  accomplish  thereby  ? 

7.  Why  do  he  and  Lady  Macbeth  single  out  Banquo  for  special 
honor  ? 

8.  Why  does  Macbeth  question  him  so  closely  regarding  his  plans  ? 

9.  Why  did  not  Banquo  suspect  the  danger  to  himself? 

10.  What  various  reasons  had  Macbeth  for  wishing  him  out  of  the 
way? 

11.  Where  doesJVIacbeth  first  show  that  he  sees  he  has  gained 
nothing  by  his  great  crime  ? 

12.  Why  does  he  refer  to  the  *^  strange  inventions"  of  his  *^  bloody 
cousins  "  ? 

13.  What  sort  of  men  are  the  murderers?  What  fortunes  have 
they  had? 

14.  To  what  motives  in  them  does  Macbeth  appeal? 

1$.  Where  had  he  himself  been  moved  by  an  appeal  to  similar 
motives? 

16.  How,  then,  are  these  men  but  a  reflection,  an  echo,  of  himself? 

17.  What  care  does  he  make  most  prominent  in  his  instructions  to 
them? 

18.  What  evidence  is  there  that  he  had  been  planning  the  murder 
before  this  scene  opens  ? 

19.  Where  does  he  seem  to  descend  furthest  from  the  kingly  char- 
acter in  which  the  opening  of  this  scene  presents  him  ? 

20.  In  what  respect  do  you  see  a  development  in  his  character? 

21.  To  what  is  it  due  ? 

Scene  II.  i.  Why  does  Lady  Macbeth  inquire  concerning  Ban- 
quo?  Why  does  she  ask  for  Macbeth  a  moment  after?  Does  she 
know  what  is  to  be  done  ? 


I  12  SHAKESPEARE,  [act  hi.  sc.  hi.,  iv. 

2.  What  is  her  state  of  mind  ?  Compare  her  confident  assurance 
in  Act  II.,  Scene  II.,  p.  39:  ^*A  little  water  clears  us  of  this 
deed." 

3.  What  is  Macbeth's  state  of  mind  ?  Does  he  suffer  from  fear, 
from  remorse,  or  from  both  ? 

4.  How  does  his  wife  deal  with  him  ? 

5.  Why  is  she  no  longer  able  to  take  the  lead  and  to  dictate  to  him 
his  course  of  action  ? 

6.  Compare  the  resolution  that  here  follows  his  distress  of  mind 
with  that  in  Act  I.,  Scene  VII.,  last  3  lines,  p.  31,  and   first    13, 

P-  32. 

7.  Does  Lady  Macbeth  suggest  the  new  murder  to  him?  Or  is 
she  trying  to  find  out  what  he  means  to  do? 

8.  What  do  you  think  are  her  feelings  and  her  demeanor  during 
his  last  speech  ?     Is  she  elated  or  resolute,  as  in  Act  I.  ? 

9.  What  three  speeches  of  Macbeth  show  fine  poetic  quality  ? 

10.  At  what  points  in  the  action  does  he  rise  to  the  highest  flights 
of  poetry  ?     Why  ? 

1 1 .  What  effect  does  this  have  ?  Does  it  seem  to  soften  or  make 
less  repulsive  the  uglier  features  of  the  evil  in  the  play  ? 

12.  What  mental  qualities  does  he  seem  to  have? 

13.  What  dramatic  fitness  of  application  to  himself  and  to  his  con- 
dition does  his  speech  regarding  Duncan  have  ? 

14.  What  sort  of  images  predominate,  and  with  what  effect,  in  his 
last  two  speeches  ? 

Scene  III.     i.   In  what  kind  of  light  does  this  action  occur? 

2.  Why  may  it  be  presented  to  the  audience  more  directly  than 
the  murder  of  Duncan  ? 

3.  What  effect  is  gained  by  having  this  scene  follow  immediately 
upon  the  events  of  Scene  II.  ? 

4.  It  has  been  suggested  by  some  critics  that  the  third  murderer 
was  Macbeth.  Study  carefully  the  evidences  for  or  against  this  view 
in  Scenes  I.,  III.,  and  IV. 

5.  Why  is  it  fitting  that  Fleance  should  escape? 

6.  Has  Banquo  in  any  way  provoked  or  deserved  his  fate  ? 

Scene  IV.     i.  What  sort  of  scene  is  here  represented? 
2.  Note  the  elements  of  formality  and  courtesy  with  which  the 
guests  are  greeted. 


ACT  III.  sc.  IV.]  MACBETH,  113 

3.  Why  is  the  murderer  made  to  appear  at  the  door  with  Ban- 
quo's  blood  upon  his  face  ? 

4.  Does  any  one  else  see  the  murderer? 

5.  In  what  way  does  Macbeth  inquire  after  Banquo  and  Fleance? 
Does  this  throw  any  light  upon  the  question  as  to  who  was  the  third 
murderer  ? 

6.  How  does  Macbeth  receive  the  news  of  Fleance's  escape  ?     Why  ? 

7.  Why  does  Lady  Macbeth  recall  him  to  his  duties  ? 

8.  Sum  up  the  various  ways  by  which  we  have  been  prepared  for 
the  appearance  of  the  ghost.  (See  ^^  Hamlet,"  Act  I.,  for  a  similar 
dramatic  method.) 

9.  What  is  gained  by  making  the  ghost  of  Banquo  appear  so  soon 
after  Macbeth  hears  of  the  murder? 

10.  At  what  point  in  the  scene  does  Macbeth  first  see  the  ghost? 

11.  On  what  word  is  the  emphasis  in  **  Which  of  you  have  done 
this  "  ?     Compare  Macbeth's  next  speech. 

12.  Does  Lady  Macbeth  at  first  know  what  is  the  matter  with  him  ? 

13.  What  do  you  suppose  is  the  first  effect  upon  the  guests? 

14.  What  hints  have  been  given  hitherto  that  make  it  probable 
that  they  would  put  a  dark  construction  upon  Macbeth's  actions  in 
this  scene  ? 

15.  As  the  scene  advances,  what  things  would  be  likely  to  make  the 
nobles  certain  of  Macbeth's  guilt  ? 

16.  With  what  crime  would  they  associate  it? 

17.  Follow  the  images  in  his  mind  as  his  terror  compels  him  to 
reveal  them. 

18.  How  does  LaJy  Macbeth  seek  to  divert  suspicion?  With  what 
success  ? 

19.  Why  does  she  reproach  him  so  sharply  with  what  he  cannot 
help  ?     Compare  her  attitude  in  Act  L 

20.  At  what  point  does  the  ghost  reenter?     Why? 

21.  Is  there  any  reason  for  thinking  this  the  ghost  ot  Duncan? 
Some  critics  have  thought  that  more  than  one  ghost  appeared.  Is 
the  change  in  its  appearance  merely  due  to  Macbeth's  delirious 
state  of  mind  ?  Study  carefully  the  passages  relating  to  the  ghost. 
Note  especially  lines  23-26,  p.  60,  and  recall  the  fact  that  Banquo  has 
not  been  buried.  Note,  on  the  other  hand,  Hnes  2  and  3,  p.  60,  and 
lines  21  and  22,  p.  61.  Compare  line  5,  p.  61,  with  line  4,  p.  59. 
Which  view  is  more  natural  and  more  dramatic  ? 

22.  Is  the  phantom  seen  by  any  one  else  ? 


114  SHAKESPEARE.  [act  iii.  sc.  v.,  vi. 

23.  Why  does  Ross  say,  **  What  sights,  my  lord  "  ? 

24.  Why  does  Lady  Macbeth  now  send  her  guests  off  so  quickly, 
even  though  the  feast  is  untasted? 

25.  Note  how  the  fit  passes  off  from  Macbeth  in  moralizing.  Com- 
pare Act  II.,  Scene  II.,  Hnes  7-14,  p.  38. 

26.  For  what  hour  was  the  feast  set?  How  has  the  time  been 
consumed,  if  it  is  now  almost  morning? 

27.  What  change  is  there  in  Lady  Macbeth's  attitude?  Account 
for  it. 

28.  In  what  light  is  Macduff  shown  here  ?  What  does  this  fore- 
shadow ? 

29.  What  indication  is  there  that  Macbeth's  tyranny  has  begun  ? 
Compare  his  statement,  ^*To  be  thus  is  nothing,  but  to  be  safely 
thus." 

30.  What  hint  does  he  give  as  to  his  future  course  ? 

31.  Why  does  he  resolve  to  revisit  the  witches?  What  develop- 
ment of  his  character  does  this  show  ? 

32o  How  does  he  account  for  his  present  weakness? 

Scene  V.     i.   How  is  Hecate  connected  with  the  witches? 

2.  For  what  purpose  is  she  introduced  ? 

3.  How  is  Macbeth's  downfall  definitely  foretold? 

4.  Compare  lines  9-16,  p.  65,  with  the  classical  proverb,  **  Whom 
the  gods  would  destroy  they  first  make  mad." 

5.  Compare  hnes  13-16,  p.  65,  with  Macbeth's  last  words  in  the 
preceding  scene. 

Scene  VI.     i.   What  is  the  dramatic  purpose  of  this  scene? 

2.  What  indications  has  it  of  the  dangers  that  are  arising  for 
Macbeth  ? 

3.  How  definitely  are  these  things  stated  ? 

4.  In  what  spirit  does  Lennox  speak? 

5.  What  was  the  result  of  Macbeth's  message  to  Macduff? 

6.  In  summing  up  the  effects  of  this  scene,  bear  in  mind  also  the 
supernatural  enmity  against  Macbeth  in  Scene  V. 

7.  Note  the  extremely  rapid  movement  of  the  play  as  indicated 
in  this  scene,  especially  in  the  lord's  speech,  p.  66. 

To  what  point  has  this  act  brought  the  action  of  the  play?  What 
forces  are  becoming  more  prominent?     What  indications  are  there 


ACT  IV.  sc.  I.,  II.]  MACBETH.  1 1 5 

that  Macbeth's  star  is  descending?  Show  how  he  is  hastening  his 
downfall  by  the  means  by  which  he  seeks  to  make  himself  secure. 
Where  is  the  climax  or  turning-point  of  the  entire  play  ? 

ACT   IV. 

Scene  I.  i.  What  sort  of  material  do  the  witches  choose  for  their 
caldron  ?     Why  ? 

2.  Why  is  Hecate  introduced  ? 

3.  How  do  they  now  regard  Macbeth  ? 

4.  What  powers  does  he  attribute  to  them  ? 

5.  What  is  indicated  by  the  fact  that  he  seeks  them  ? 

6.  How  does  he  greet  them  ?  What  relation  with  them  does  this 
seem  to  imply  ? 

7.  Whom  do  they  mean  by  their  ^* masters"? 

8.  What  does  this  seem  to  indicate  as  to  the  nature  and  function 
of  the  witches  in  the  play  ? 

9.  Explain  the  meaning  of  each  of  the  apparitions. 

10.  How  are  these  at  once  an  answer  to  his  thoughts  and  feeling 
and  a  revelation  of  his  future  ? 

11.  Does  he  suspect  that  the  witches  are  mocking  him? 

12.  What  fitness  is  there  in  the  fact  that  it  is  Lennox  who  brings 
him  the  news  of  Macduff's  flight? 

13.  Why  are  the  witches  visible  to  no  one  except  Macbeth  and 
Banquo  ?     What  does  this  suggest  as  to  their  function  in  the  play  ? 

14.  What  resolution  does  Macbeth  now  make  ?     Why  ? 

15.  Show  how  this,  hke  the  murder  of  Banquo,  is  a  delusive  hope, 
and  how  it  helps  to  carry  out  the  prediction  of  Hecate  (Act  HI.,  Scene 
v.,  p.  65). 

Scene  II.     i .  Why  had  Macduff  left  his  family  ? 

2.  Did  he  know  the  danger  in  which  they  stood? 

3.  Where  have  we  first  learned  of  it  ? 

4.  Did  Lady  Macduff  know  why  he  had  gone  ?  Why  had  he  not 
told  her  ? 

5.  What  does  Ross  think  of  the  times  ? 

6.  Comment  upon  the  delineation  of  Lady  Macduff's  son.  Does 
he  speak  like  a  child  ? 

7.  For  what  purpose  is  the  messenger  introduced  ?  Would  it  be 
more,  or  less,  effective  if  the  murder  occurred  without  any  warning? 


Ii6  SHAKESPEARE.  [act  v.  sc.  i. 

8.  Compare  the  open  fashion  of  this  murder  with  the  two  preced- 
ing murders.     How  does  it  indicate  the  development  of  the  play  ? 

9.  How  much  of  this  scene  is  left  to  the  imagination?  (See  Ross's 
account  in  the  next  scene,  p.  85.) 

10.  How  is  this  scene  a  preparation  for  the  next  ? 

Scene  III.     i.   What  steady  purpose  does  Macduff  now  hold? 

2.  What  is  his  mission  to  England  now  seen  to  be  ? 

3.  Has  Malcolm  kept  himself  informed  of  affairs  at  home  ? 

4.  What  progress  of  time  is  indicated  by  the  fact  that  he  is  now 
•-ought  out  to  be  made  king? 

5.  What  has  become  of  Donalbain?  Why  is  he  allowed  to  drop 
out  of  the  story  ? 

6.  Why  does  Malcolm  suspect  Macduff? 

7.  What  two  tests  does  he  put  to  him  ? 

8.  How  is  he  satisfied  ? 

9.  Why  is  the  scene  of  the  doctor  introduced  ?  Is  it  in  compliment 
to  the  ruling  sovereign,  or  for  the  sake  of  contrast  with  Macbeth  as 
king'? 

10.  What  is  gained  by  having  anew  from  Ross  the  picture  of  Scot- 
land's distress? 

11.  Why  does  Ross  delay  his  news? 

12.  How  does  Macduff  at  first  receive  it? 

13.  How  does  it  become  a  new  motive  force  in  the  play? 

14.  What  had  been  Macbeth's  purpose  in  this  atrocity?  How  does 
it  result  for  him  ? 

15.  How  is  it  shown  that  Macduff  is  now  the  dominating  force  of 
the  play  ? 

To  what  point  has  Act  IV.  advanced  the  action  ?  What  forces  are 
gathering  for  Macbeth's  destruction  ?  By  what  means  has  our  sym- 
pathy been  almost  completely  alienated  from  him  ? 

ACT  V. 

Scene  I.  i.  What  stage  setting  is  used  to  augment  the  power  of 
this  scene  ? 

2.  Why  is  it  rendered  more  impressive  by  the  presence  of  the 
doctor  and  the  gentlewoman  ? 

3.  Why  have  they  come  ? 


ACT  V.  sc.  II.,  III.]  MACBETH.  117 

4.  When  did  Lady  Macbeth's  breakdown  occur  ?     Why  ? 

5.  Why  has  Macbeth  not  given  way  under  the  strain?  Has  he 
been  able  to  sleep?     (See  Act  III.,  Scenes  II.  and  IV.) 

6.  Where  have  premonitions  of  this  scene  been  given  ?  Quote  the 
passages. 

7.  Show  how  each  of  Lady  Macbeth's  statements  is  an  echo  of 
great  crimes  or  an  evidence  of  her  suffering  from  them. 

8.  What  things  show  that  she  has  suffered  remorse  as  well  as  fear  ? 

9.  Note  the  effectiveness  with  which  the  sense  of  smell  is  made  to 
add  to  the  tragic  effect.  Compare  the  use  of  this  sense  in  the  proph- 
ecy of  Cassandra  in  ^schylus'  tragedy  of  '*  Agamemnon." 

10.  What  things  show  that  Lady  Macbeth  has  suffered  from  crimes 
in  which  she  had  no  direct  share  ? 

11.  Why  is  she  made  to  speak  in  broken  and  disjointed  fashion? 

12.  What  evidences  are  there  in  this  scene  that  Lady  Macbeth  was 
not  masculine  and  Amazonian  ?  Examine  also  the  evidences  in  Act 
II.     (See  lines  7-17,  p.  7,  of  the  Introduction.) 

13.  Why  is  she  allowed  to  pass  out  of  sight  here  ?  Why  does  it  not 
give  us  a  sense  of  incompleteness  in  the  story  ? 

14.  How  has  the  unity  of  the  play  been  preserved  in  spite  of  the 
prominent  part  given  both  to  Macbeth  and  Lady  Macbeth  ? 

15.  What  impression  do  you  get  of  the  doctor? 

16.  How  does  he  interpret  this  scene?  As  he  says,  **Even  so?" 
what  is  it  that  recurs  to  his  mind? 

17.  What  feelings  does  the  scene  arouse  in  you? 

Scene  II.  i.  For  what  purpose  is  this  scene  introduced?  What 
direct  and  important  information  regarding  the  progress  of  the  action 
does  it  give  us  ? 

2.  What  is  signified  by  the  fact  that  all  the  prominent  characters 
of  the  play  are  in  this  and  the  following  scenes  arrayed  against  Mac- 
beth?    Compare  his  words  in  Scene  III.,  p.  91. 

3.  What  is  now  the  dominating  motive  of  action  among  the 
nobles? 

4.  What  does  Menteith  mean  by  his  reference  to  Macbeth's  *'  pes- 
ter'd  senses  "  ? 

Scene  III.     i.  What  ''reports"  does  Macbeth  mean? 

2.  Does  he  yet  realize  the  ironical  nature  of  the  witches'  prophecies  ? 
Or  is  he  only  trying  to  bolster  up  his  own  courage  and  that  of  his 
followers  ? 


1 1 8  SHAKESPEARE.  [act  v.  sc.  iv.-viii. 

3.  In  what  state  of  mind  is  he?  Note  the  manner  in  which  he 
treats  those  about  him. 

4.  How  is  this  state  of  mind  a  fulfillment  of  Hecate's  threat  in  Act 
ni.,  Scene  v.,  p.  65? 

5.  How  does  Macbeth  now  regard  his  life? 

6.  What  "  poetic  justice  "  is  there  in  his  situation  ?  Consider  its 
causes. 

7.  Why  does  he  speak  of  himself  as  already  old  ?  How  much  time 
is  supposed  to  have  elapsed  since  the  opening  of  the  play? 

8.  What  difference  do  you  see  between  ^*  stage  time,"  or  '*  dramatic 
time,"  and  ordinary  time  ?  Compare  the  lapse  of  time  in  the  banquet 
scene  (Act  III.,  Scene  IV.). 

9.  Does  Macbeth  sympathize  with  the  suffering  of  his  wife  ?  Is  he 
thinking  of  her  only  when  he  speaks  of  ^'a  mind  diseased"? 

10.  Note  the  reascendency  of  his  habit  of  courage  and  resolute 
action.  Is  he  thus  rendered  more  heroic,  dramatically  considered, 
than  if  he  repented  and  gave  himself  up  to  punishment? 

11.  Is  repentance  possible  to  him?  Would  it  be  a  violation  of 
consistency  in  his  character  ? 

Scene  IV.     What  is  the  dramatic  purpose  of  this  scene  ? 

Scene  V.     i.  What  are  the  two  great  events  of  this  scene? 

2.  Account  for  the  way  in  which  Macbeth  receives  the  news  of  his 
wife's  death. 

3.  How  has  he  come  to  regard  life?  Why?  Does  he  see  it  as 
it  would  naturally  appear  to  a  man  in  his  condition  ? 

4.  How  is  he  affected  by  the  news  about  Birnam  wood? 

5.  What  course  of  action  does  it  drive  him  into  ?  Is  it  a  wise 
plan? 

6.  In  what  light  do  these  facts  place  the  prophecies  of  Hecate  and 
the  witches  ? 

Scenes  VI.,  VII.,  and  VIII.  i.  How  does  Macbeth  now  regard 
himself?     Has  he  lost  courage  ? 

2.  Note  the  way  in  which  he  clings  to  the  last  of  the  prophecies. 

3.  For  what  reasons  is  it  fitting  that  he  should  be  slain  by  Macduff? 

4.  Is  it  more  effective  to  have  him  first  learn  that  this  last  of  the 
prophecies  was  also  delusive  ? 

5.  How  does  it  affect  him  to  learn  this? 


ACT  V.  sc.  VIII.]  MACBETH.  119 

6.  Why  do  we  feel  mingled  pity  and  terror  at  the  events  of 
Act   v.? 

7.  What  new  conditions  for  Scotland  come  in  with  the  end  of  the 
play  ?    Compare  this  ending  with  that  of  **  Hamlet "  and  **  King  Lear." 

Show  who  was  the  dominating  force  in  the  first  half  of  the  play  and 
who  in  the  second  half  Trace  the  rise  and  decline  of  the  first,  and 
the  steady  rise,  to  the  end  of  the  play,  of  the  second.  Point  out  the 
motives  and  causes  that  were  at  work  in  each  case.  Is  the  play  then 
a  final  triumph  of  the  evil  or  of  the  good  forces?  With  what  sort  of 
laws  does  it  deal  —  moral  or  social,  or  both  ?  If  with  both,  point 
out  their  relations  to  each  other. 


ECLECTIC  ENGLISH  CLASSICS 


L'ALLEGRO,  IL  PENSEROSO 
COMUS,  AND  LYCIDAS 


BY 

JOHN  MILTON 


NEW  YORK  •:•  CINCINNATI  •:•  CHICAGO 

AMERICAN    BOOK    COMPANY 


Copyright,  1894,  by 
American  Book  Company. 

Milton. 


INTRODUCTION. 


John  Milton  was  born  in  London  in  1608.  He  was  edu- 
cated at  Christ's  College,  Cambridge,  where  he  graduated  in  1632. 
While  yet  a  student,  he  wrote  several  of  his  shorter  poems,  and 
the  hymn  ''  On  the  Morning  of  Christ's  Nativity."  Between 
1632  and  1638  he  wrote  ''Arcades,"  '' Comus,"  "  Lycidas," 
"L'Allegro,"  and  ''II  Penseroso."  In  1638  he-  visited  France 
and  Italy,  returning  to  England  in  the  following  year.  From 
that  time  until  after  the  restoration  of  Charles  II.,  in  1660,  he 
published  no  poetry,  but  was  actively  engaged  in  poHtical  con- 
troversy, or  occupied  with  his  official  duties  as  Latin  secretary  to 
Cromwell.  His  greatest  work,  "  Paradise  Lost,"  begun  in  1658, 
was  pubhshed  in  1665.  "Paradise  Regained"  and  "Samson 
Agonistes"  were  both  published  in  1671.     Milton  died  in  1674. 

In  the  four  poems  comprising  this  volume  we  have  the  best 
of  the  earHer  works  of  John  Milton.  No  criticism  of  them  has 
been  more  widely  accepted  than  the  statement  that  they  proved, 
upon  their  first  appearance,  that  another  true  poet  had  arisen 
in  England.  Written  between  the  years  1632  and  1638,  when 
great  questions  of  Church  and  State  were  disturbing  the  minds  of 
the  Enghsh  people,  and  preparing  the  way  for  the  Puritan  Revo- 
lution which  very  soon  followed,  they  naturally  reflect  in  some 

3 


4  INTRODUCTION, 

measure  the  spirit  of  the  times.  In  the  heroic  age  of  EHzabeth, 
which  had  just  passed  away,  each  subject  had  seemed  to  feel 
that  he  must  uphold  the  honor  of  the  English  name  at  any  cost. 
The  influence  of  the  spirit  of  chivalry  had  bound  men  together 
in  the  common  ties  of  loyalty  and  national  pride,  and  was  appar- 
ent not  more  in  the  heroic  achievements  of  Raleigh  and  of  Drake 
than  in  the  immortal  works  of  Shakespeare  and  of  Spenser.  But 
now,  under  the  tyranny  of  Charles  I.,  and  amid  the  rapid  growth 
of  commercial  influences,  the  ennobling  sentiments  which  had 
formerly  shaped  men's  actions  were  being  gradually  stifled.  The 
bonds  of  unfaltering  loyalty  and  unquestioning  obedience  were 
being  forced  asunder  by  the  opposition  which  royal  despotism  had 
aroused  ;  and  every  thinking  mind  was  being  swayed  by  rehgious 
unrest,  or  was  seeking  refuge  in  dogmatic  assertion  and  ecclesi- 
astical authority.  Even  in  literature  a  great  change  was  appar- 
ent ;  "  for  a  reaction  had  taken  place  from  poetical  impulse  and 
heroic  achievement  to  prosaic  weariness  and  worldly  wisdom.'* 
In  order,  therefore,  to  understand  the  deeper  import  and  mean- 
ing of  these  early  poems  of  Milton,  one  should  enter  upon  their 
study  with  some  knowledge  oi  the  conditions  of  life  and  thought 
and  purpose  which  prevailed  at  the  time  of  their  composition, 
and  should  bear  in  mind  the  influence  which  these  must  have 
had  upon  the  poet  and  his  utterances. 

John  Milton  graduated  from  Christ's  College,  Cambridge,  in 
1632,  when  twenty-four  years  of  age.  During  the  six  years 
which  followed,  he  remained  in  his  father's  home  at  Horton, 
Buckinghamshire ;  and  it  was  there  that  he  wrote  these  poems. 
One  might  have  supposed  that  the  courtly  manners  of  his  early 
home,  his  musical  tastes,  and  the  teachings  of  his  father  would 
have  bred  in  him  a  disincHnation  for  the  strict,  self-denying  life 


INTRODUCTION,  5 

of  Puritanism.  But  he  could  not  be  oblivious  to  the  underlying 
excellence  of  the  Puritan  doctrines,  or  neglectful  of  the  demands 
of  the  times.  To  him,  Duty  was  ever  ''  the  stern  daughter  of  the 
voice  of  God." 

In  "  L'Allegro  "  (The  Cheerful  Man)  and  "  II  Penseroso  "  (The 
Thoughtful  Man)  Milton  presents,  for  his  own  contemplation  and 
ours,  pictures  of  the  two  paths  which  seemed  at  that  time  to  open 
before  him, — the  life  of  a  Courtier  or  Cavalier,  and  the  life  of  a 
Puritan.  He  gives  Itahan  titles  to  these  poems,  perhaps  because 
there  are  no  English  equivalents  which  are  exactly  applicable  to 
his  ideals.  In  the  first  instance,  to  say  "  A  Mirthful  Man  "  would 
suggest  a  character  too  shallow  or  too  frivolous,  while  the  ex- 
pression "  A  Cheerful  Man  "  would  fail  to  convey  his  entire  mean- 
ing ;  in  the  other  case,  to  write  of  "  A  Thoughtful  Man  "  would 
call  up  the  image  of  a  student  or  a  philosopher,  and  lead  to  a 
hasty  misjudgment  of  the  intent  of  the  poem. 

Each  poem  describes  the  pursuits  and  pleasures  of  twelve 
hours.  L'Allegro  is  introduced  to  us  at  the  first  peep  of  dawn, 
listening  to  the  cheerful  song  of  the  lark,  the  cockcrowing,  and 
the  music  of  the  huntsman's  horn;  then  the  fieldworkers  are 
observed  at  their  various  tasks ;  the  landscape,  with  its  ever 
changing  beauties,  dehghts  the  eye ;  the  humble  cottage  and  the 
lordly  castle  each  contributes  a  picture  to  the  scene ;  and  when 
the  day's  duties  are  at  an  end,  the  evening  is  spent  in  social 
dehghts,  in  story-telhng,  in  the  reading  of  Jonson's  comedies  or 
Shakespeare's  "  wood-notes  wild,"  or  in  listening  to  soft  strains  of 
music,  . 


"  Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 
The  hidden  soul  of  harmony." 


6  INTRODUCTION, 

II  Penseroso  starts  out  in  the  early  evening  hours ;  he  Hstens 
to  the  song  of  the  nightingale,  or,  as  he  walks  in  the  moonKght, 
hears  the  far-off  curfew  sound ;  he  spends  the  evening  in  the 
contemplation  of  the  great  tragedies  of  antiquity,  or  devotes  the 
later  hours  of  the  night  to  the  study  of  the  mysteries  of  life  and 
immortahty ;  and  with  the  break  of  day  he  betakes  himself  to 
some  quiet  nook  in  the  woods,  or  hstens,  under  the  ''  high-em- 
bowed  roof"  of  church  or  cathedral,  to  the  ecstatio  music  of 
full-voiced  choir  and  pealing  organ. 

Thus  Mirth  and  Seriousness  each  finds  its  cw-:  evjoyments  in 
life ;  but  it  is  plain  that  the  poet's  sympathies  are  with  the  latter. 
Perhaps,  all  unwitting  to  himself,  he  thus  intimates  the  ultimate 
choice  of  his  life, — to  ally  himself  with  the  seriousness  of  Puri- 
tanism rather  than  permit  the  mirth  of  the  Cavaliers  to  tempt  him 
from  the  plain  path  of  duty.  Both  poems  are  nature  lyrics,  with 
a  reflective  background  which  the  reader  must  discover  for  him- 
self. Strictly  speaking,  they  are  not  descriptive  poems ;  for  '^  the 
charm  of  nature  poetry  is  not  its  description — its  rivalry  with  a 
painting  of  the  scene ;  it  is  the  suggestive  power  of  objects  to 
stimulate  the  imagination."  It  is  in  this  quahty  that  the  beauty 
and  excellence  of  these  two  poems  is  chiefly  to  be  found. 

"  Comus,"  the  third  poem  in  this  collection,  is  a  dramatic  com- 
position,—  ''a  fine  example  of  the  high  literary  masque."  This 
species  of  drama,  which  is  of  Itahan  origin,  was  introduced  into 
England  as  early  as  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII.,  and  when  "  Comus  " 
was  written  it  was  in  the  height  of  its  popularity.  It  combined 
lyric  poetry,  declamation,  dialogue,  music,  and  dancing,  the  whole 
being  set  off  with  elaborate  scenery.  When,  as  in  this  case,  the 
literary  element  predominated,  the  performance  was  much  like 


INTRODUCTION.  7 

that  of  an  ordinary  drama ;  but  when  the  poem  was  subordinate 
to  the  scenery,  the  result  was  a  pageant. 

"  Comus "  was  written  for  presentation  at  Ludlow  Castle, 
Shropshire,  on  Michaelmas  night,  1634,  the  occasion  being  the 
induction  of  the  Earl  of  Bridgewater  into  the  office  of  Lord 
President  of  Wales,  to  which  he  had  been  appointed  some  three 
years  before.  Henry  Lawes,  a  distinguished  musical  composer, 
had  been  intrusted  with  the  preparation  of  an  entertainment,  or 
masque,  to  be  performed  in  connection  with  the  other  festivities 
of  the  evening,  and  it  was  at  his  request  that  Milton  undertook 
the  composition  of  the  poem.  The  leading  parts  in  the  play — 
those  of  the  Lady  and  her  Brothers — were  taken  by  the  Earl  of 
Bridgewater's  three  children,  while  the  part  of  the  Attendant 
Angel  was  performed  by  Lawes  himself.  The  names  of  those 
who  personated  Comus  and  Sabrina  have  not  been  preserved. 
The  presentation  took  place  in  the  great  hall  of  Ludlow  Castle,  * 
on  a  stage  erected  for  the  purpose  at  one  end  of  the  room. 

The  story  which  the  play  brings  out  is  said  tp  have  had  some 
foundation  in  fact.  There  is  a  popular  tradition,  still  extant  in 
Shropshire,  to  the  effect  that  the  three  children  of  the  Earl  of 
Bridgewater  were  actually  overtaken  by  nightfall,  and  separated 
from  one  another  in  Haywood  Forest  near  Ludlow.  ''  If  this 
ever  took  place,  and  news  of  it  reached  Milton's  ears,  then  he 
simply  dramatized  the  episode ;  but  it  is  far  more  probable  that 
the  legend,  which  dates  from  the  last  century,  grew  out  of  the 
masque,  than  vice  versa.'''' 

In  the  writing  of  this  masque  Milton  borrowed  suggestions 
and  ideas  from  many  sources.  The  main  incidents  of  the  story 
are  almost  identical  with  those  related  in  a  play  entitled  *^The 
Old  Wives'  Tale  "  by  George  Peele,  published  nearly  forty  years 


8  INTRODUCTION, 

before.  Comus,  as  the  personification  of  revelry,  appears  in 
Ben  Jonson's  masque  of  **  Pleasure  Reconciled  to  Virtue  "  (pub- 
lished in  1619),  where  he  is  apostrophized  as 

*'  The  founder  of  taste 
For  fresh  meats,  or  powdered,  or  pickled,  or  paste ; 
An  emptier  of  cups." 

He  also  appears  in  a  Latin  play,  entitled  ''  Comus,"  written 
by  Hendrik  van  der  Putten,  a  Dutch  professor  at  Louvain,  and 
repubhshed  at  Oxford  in  1634.  With  this  play  as  well  as  with 
Jonson's  masque,  Milton  was  no  doubt  familiar.  In  the  writing 
of  the  last  part  of  the  poem  —  the  disenchantment  scene — he 
owed  not  a  little  to  Fletcher's  pastoral  drama,  ''The  Faithful 
Shepherdess,"  which  was  very  popular  in  the  London  theaters 
in  1633.  In  other  passages  the  influence  of  earlier  poets,  and 
especially  of  Spenser,  is  plainly  apparent.  But  whatever  he  may 
have  borrowed,  Milton  infused  into  it  new  life  and  a  new  charm, 
not  only  presenting  it  in  a  highly  improved  form,  but  breathing 
into  it  the  breath  of  fresh  suggestion. 

The  poem,  besides  having  an  obvious  moral  signification,  was 
probably  intended  by  Milton  to  admit  of  a  deep  allegorical  inter- 
pretation. In  it  may  be  seen  the  influence  of  Spenser's  "  Faerie 
Queene  "  upon  the  thought  and  literary  methods  of  the  poet. 
Did  he  intend  Comus  to  represent  the  corrupt  influences  of  the 
then  existing  Court  and  Church,  and  the  Lady  and  her  friends  to 
personify  Virtue  and  her  champions?  Or  did  he  intend  to  por- 
tray the  conflict  which  is  waged  between  Body  and  Soul,  result- 
ing finally  in  the  complete  triumph  of  the  higher  nature  over  the 
lower  ?  "  The  bare  fact  that  Milton  wrote  *  Comus '  showed  that 
he  had  not  yet  gone  over  to  help  the  party  which  bore  an  unrea- 


INTRODUCTION,  9 

soning  hatred  of  all  amusements.  On  the  other  hand,  the  whole 
tone  of  the  poem  was  a  rebuke  to  the  seekers  of  mere  pleasure. 
The  revel  god  personified  the  worst  elements  of  court  Hfe.  In 
his  overthrow  Milton  allegorically  foreshadowed  the  downfall 
of  those  who  led  that  hfe.  Two  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago 
'  Comus '  was  terribly  real,  as  a  warning  against  the  danger  upon 
which  the  ship  of  national  life  was  drifting.  But  the  theme  is 
true  yesterday,  to-day,  and  forever ;  and  the  art  with  which  it  is 
set  off  remains  undimmed,  the  wisdom  unfading."     (Verity.) 

"  Lycidas,"  the  fourth  and  last  poem  in  the  collection,  is  Mil- 
ton's tribute  to  his  college  friend  and  companion,  Edward  King. 
Milton  and  King  had  studied  and  written  together,  and  their 
tastes  and  pursuits  were  in  many  respects  identical.  After  grad- 
uation. King  had  remained  at  Cambridge,  first  as  fellow,  then  as 
tutor,  with  the  expectation  of  soon  being  ordained  for  the  Church. 
In  1637  he  embarked  on  a  vessel  at  Chester,  intending  to  go 
over  into  Ireland,  to  spend  the  long  vacation  ,with  his  relatives 
there.  When  hardly  out  to  sea,  in  calm  weather,  the  vessel 
foundered  upon  a  rock,  and  nearly  all  on  board  were  drowned. 
In  the  same  autumn,  King's  friends  at  Cambridge  pubhshed  a 
volume  of  verses  dedicated  to  his  memory,  and  to  this  volume 
Milton  contributed  "  Lycidas." 

The  poem  begins  with  the  intimation  that  only  grief  for  his  dead 
friend  had  induced  the  poet  to  forego  a  resolution  not  to  write 
more  until  he  should  be  better  able  to  attain  to  the  high  ideal  he 
had  chosen.  In  pastoral  allegory  he  refers  briefly  to  their  com- 
mon tasks  and  pursuits,  and  represents  all  nature  as  bewaiHng  the 
loss  of  Lycidas.  Yet  the  reflection  that  naught  could  interpose 
to  save  his  friend  induces  Milton  to  question  the  wisdom  of 


I  o  INTROD  UCTION. 

human  toil  and  aspiration.  What  is  fame?  Is  it  not  a  vain  in- 
firmity? But  then  he  is  reminded  that  true  fame  is  of  no  earthly 
growth,  and  that  Heaven  alone  can  declare  what  shall  be  the 
rew^ard  of  man's  work.  Then,  returning  to  his  grief  for  Lycidas, 
he  listens  to  Triton,  who  makes  inquiry  concerning  the  cause  of 
the  shipwreck ;  to  Comus,  asking  mournfully  who  has  bereft  him 
of  his  dearest  pledge ;  and  to  St.  Peter,  bewailing  the  loss  of 
so  promising  a  youth.  This  leads  him  into  another  digression, 
wherein  he  rebukes  the  worldliness  and  greed  of  the  clergy  of  the 
time,  and  by  implication  foretells  their  downfall.  Then  the  poet 
resumes  his  strain,  bidding  all  the  flowers  of  wood  and  plain  to 
bring  their  tribute  to  the  memory  of  Lycidas ;  and  finally  he  is 
persuaded  that  the  youth  is  not  dead,  but  has  been  transported 
to  '^the  blest  kingdoms  meek  of  joy  and  love,"  and  will  live 
henceforth  as  the  Genius  of  the  shore.  The  shepherds  are  bid- 
den to  dry  their  tears ;  and  the  poet  declares  that  other  subjects 
of  thought  and  effort  shall  hereafter  claim  his  attention — 

*^  To-morrow  to  fresh  fields  and  pastures  new." 

'^  He  who  wishes  to  know  whether  he  has  a  true  taste  for  poetry 
or  not,  should  consider  whether  he  is  highly  deHghted  or  not  with 
the  perusal  of  Milton's  '  Lycidas.'  " 


L'ALLEGRO. 


Hence,  loathed  Melancholy, 

Of  Cerberus  ^  and  blackest  Midnight  born 
In  Stygian  cave  forlorn 

'Mongst  horrid  shapes,  and  shrieks,  and  sights  unholy! 
Find  out  some  uncouth  cell. 

Where  brooding  Darkness  spreads  his  jealous  wings. 
And  the  night  raven  sings ; 

There,  under  ebon  shades  and  low-browed  rocks, 
As  ragged  as  thy  locks, 

In  dark  Cimmerian  desert  ^  ever  dwell.  lo 

But  come,  thou  Goddess  fair  and  free, 
In  heaven  yclept  ^  Euphrosyne, 
And  by  men  heart-easing  Mirth ; 
Whom  lovely  Venus,  at  a  birth,     . 
With  two  sister  Graces  ^  more, 
To  ivy-crowned  Bacchus  bore : 

1  Cerberus  was  the  three-headed  dog  that  guarded  the  entrance  to  the 
infernal  regions.  His  den,  the  *'  Stygian  cave  forlorn,"  was  on  the  farther 
bank  of  the  river  Styx,  where  the  spirits  of  the  dead  were  landed  from  Cha- 
ron's boat.     The  Styx  was  the  chief  river  of  the  lower  world. 

2  The  country  of  the  Cimmerii,  a  sunless  region  on  the  confines  of  the 
lower  world,  where  the  spirits  of  the  dead  were  condemned  to  sojourn  awhile, 
ere  they  were  admitted  into  Hades.      (See  Guerber.) 

3  A  corruption  of  the  past  participle  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  word  clipian  (**  to 
call ").      It  is  frequently  used  by  the  older  poets. 

4  The  three  Graces  were  Euphrosyne  (the  mirthful),  Aglaia  (the  bright), 
and  Thalia  (the  blooming).  Classical  writers  do  not  agree  as  to  their  parent- 
age.    That   they  were  the  daughters  of  Venus  (love)  and   Bacchus  (good 

II 


12  MILTON. 

Or  whether  (as  some  sager  sing)  i 

The  frohc  wind  that  breathes  the  spring, 

Zephyr,  with  Aurora  playing, 

As  he  met  her  once  a-Maying,2  20 

There,  on  beds  of  violets  blue, 

And  fresh-blown  roses  washed  in  dew, 

Filled  her  with  thee,  a  daughter  fair, 

So  buxom,  bhthe,  and  debonair. 

Haste  thee,  Nymph,  and  bring  with  thee 

Jest,  and  youthful  Jollity, 

Quips  and  cranks  and  wanton  wiles, 

Nods  and  becks  and  wreathed  smiles, 

Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  ^  cheek, 

And  love  to  Hve  in  dimple  sleek ;  30 

Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides. 

And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides. 

Come,  and  trip  it,  as  you  go, 

On  the  light  fantastic  toe ; 

And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee 

The  mountain  nymph,  sweet  Liberty  ;^ 

And,  if  I  give  thee  honor  due, 

Mirth,  admit  ^  me  of  thy  crew, 

cheer),  or  perhaps  rather  of  Zephyr  (the  "frolic  wind")  and  Aurora  (the 
morning)  seems  best  to  harmonize  with  Milton's  conception  of  their  character, 
and  especially  of  that  of  Euphrosyne  (mirth). 

1  "  As  some,"  etc.,  i.e.,  as  some  wiser  (ones)  sing. 

2  Enjoying  the  sports  of  May  Day,  as  was  formerly  the  custom  in  England. 
In  Old  English  it  was  not  uncommon  to  prefix  **  on  "  or  "  a"  to  a  verbal 
noun  after  verbs  of  motion;  as  in  **  We  go  a-fishing." 

3  The  goddess  of  youth,  and  cupbearer  to  the  gods. 

*  Note  the  reason  for  calling  Liberty  a  mountain  nymph.  The  environ- 
ment of  mountainous  regions  has  doubtless  aided  in  developing  physical 
strength  and  the  desire  to  use  nature's  defenses  in  the  maintenance  of 
freedom.  Mountainous  Switzerland,  with  its  liberty-loving  people,  may  be 
mentioned  as  an  example. 

5  The  word  "  admit"  is  here  equivalent  to  *'  permit."  The  phrase  may 
be  rendered,  **  Permit  me,  as  one  of  thy  company." 


r  ALLEGRO,  13 

To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee, 

In  unreproved  pleasures  free  ;  40 

To  hear  ^  the  lark  2  begin  his  flight. 

And,  singing,  startle  the  dull  night. 

From  his  watchtower  in  the  skies, 

Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise ; 

Then  to  come,  in  spite  of  sorrow, 

And  at  my  window  bid  good-morrow, 

Through  the  sweetbrier  or  the  vine, 

Or  the  twisted  eglantine ; 

While  the  cock,  with  lively  din. 

Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  thin  ;  50 

And  to  the  stack,  or  the  barn  door'. 

Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before : 

Oft  listening  how  the  hounds  and  horn 

Cheerly  rouse  the  slumbering  morn. 

From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill. 

Through  the  high  wood  echoing  shrill : 

Sometime  walking,  not  unseen. 

By  hedgerow  elms,  on  hillocks  green. 

Right  against  the  eastern  gate 

Where  the  great  Sun  begins  his  state,  60 

Robed  in  flames  and  amber  light. 

The  clouds  in  thousand  liveries  dight ; 

While  the  plowman,  near  at  hand. 

Whistles  o'er  the  furrowed  land. 

And  the  milkmaid  singeth  blithe. 

And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe. 

And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale  ^ 

1  This  infinitive,  as  well  as  **  to  come,"  below,  depends  upon  "  admit,"  in 
line  38. 

2  The  English  skylark  begins  his  flight  before  sunrise,  singing  as  he  soars 
apward,  and  sometimes  passing  into  the  light  of  the  early  sunbeams  before 
they  have  reached  the  fields  and  valleys  below. 

3  The  words  "tell"  and  "tale"  are  both  from  the  Anglo-Saxon  word 


14  MILTON. 

Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 

Straight  mine  eye  hath  caught  new  pleasures, 

Whilst  the  landskip  i  round  it  measures :  ro 

Russet  lawns,  and  fallows  gray. 

Where  the  nibbhng  flocks  do  stray ; 

Mountains  on  whose  barren  breast 

The  laboring  clouds  do  often  rest ; 

Meadows  trim,  with  daisies  pied ; 

Shallow  brooks,  and  rivers  wide ; 

Towers  and  battlements  it  sees 

Bosomed  high  in  tufted  trees. 

Where  perhaps  some  beauty  lies. 

The  cynosure  ^  of  neighboring  eyes.  80 

Hard  by  a  cottage  chimney  smokes 

From  betwixt  two  aged  oaks, 

Where  Corydon  ^  and  Thyrsis  ^  met 

Are  at  their  savory  dinner  set 

Of  herbs  and  other  country  messes. 

Which  the  neat-handed  PhyUis  dresses ; 

And  then  in  haste  her  bower  she  leaves, 

With  Thestyhs  to  bind  the  sheaves ; 

Or,  if  the  earlier  season  lead. 

To  the  tanned  haycock  in  the  mead.  90 

Sometimes,  with  secure  delight. 

The  upland  hamlets  will  invite. 

When  the  merry  bells  ring  round, 

tellan,  one  meaning  of  which  is  "to  count."     The  expression  "  tells  his  tale  " 
is  equivalent  to  "  counts  his  number  (of  sheep)." 

1  "  Landskip,"  now  spelled  "  landscape,"  meant  originally  "  landshape," 
that  is,  the  shape  or  general  aspect  of  the  country. 

2  An  object  of  great  or  general  interest.  The  word  comes  from  Cynosura 
(**  the  dog's  tail"),  the  constellation  of  the  Lesser  Bear,  by  which  the  Phoe- 
nician mariners  guided  their  course  at  sea. 

3  Corydon  and  Thyrsis  are  favorite  names  given  to  shepherds  by  writers 
of  pastoral  poetry.  So,  also,  Phyllis  and  Thestylis  are  names  often  applied  to 
rustic  maidens  or  shepherdesses. 


V  ALLEGRO,  15 

And  the  jocund  rebecks  sound 

To  many  a  youth  and  many  a  maid 

Dancing  in  the  checkered  shade, 

And  young  and  old  come  forth  to  play 

On  a  sunshine  hohday, 

Till  the  livelong  daylight  fail : 

Then  to  the  spicy  nut-brown  ale,  100 

With  stories  told  of  many  a  feat, 

How  Fairy  Mab  ^  the  junkets  eat. 

She  was  pinched  and  pulled,  she  said ; 

And  he,2  by  Friar's  lantern  ^  led. 

Tells  how  the  drudging  goblin  sweat 

To  earn  his  cream  bowl  duly  set. 

When  in  one  night,  ere  glimpse  of  morn, 

His  shadowy  flail  hath  threshed  the  corn 

That  ten  day-laborers  could  not  end ; 

Then  lies  him  down,  the  lubber  fiend,^  no 

1  Fairy  Mab,  or  Queen  Mab,  is  the  fairy  that  sends  dreams.  Read 
Shakespeare's  description  of  her  in  Romeo  and  JuHet,  Act  i.,  sc.  4. 

2  The  pronouns  "  she  "  (line  103)  and  *'  he  "  (Hne  104)  refer  to  members 
of  the  company  of  youths  and  maidens  mentioned  above.  The  telling  of  folk- 
lore legends  and  fairy  tales  was  a  favorite  amusement  with  the  country  people 
in  Milton's  time,  and  the  belief  in  fairies  was  very  general.  These  mysterious 
little  beings  were  supposed  to  be  ever  ready  to  play  some  trick  or  work  some 
harm,  and  every  misfortune  or  deed  of  mischief  that  could  not  be  otherwise 
accounted  for,  was  popularly  ascribed  to  them. 

3  The  "Friar's  lantern"  was  probably  the  will-o'-the-wisp,  or,  as  it  is 
sometimes  called,  Jack-o'-lantern, — a  delusive  light  which  was  supposed  to 
be  produced  by  souls  broken  out  from  purgatory,  or  by  spirits  trying  to  dis- 
cover hidden  treasures.  The  *'  drudging  goblin  "  was  Robin  Goodfellow,  a 
domestic  goblin,  who  did  his  tasks  secretly  by  night.  *'  Your  grandames, 
maids,  were  wont  to  set  a  bowl  of  milk  for  him  for  his  pains  in  grinding  of 
malt  or  mustard  and  sweeping  the  house  at  midnight.  His  white  bread  and 
milk  was  his  standing  fee."     (Reginald  Scott's  Discoverie  of  Witchcraft.) 

4  "  In  the  rustic  imagination,  Robin  Goodfellow  was  represented  as  a  huge, 
loutish  fellow  of  great  strength,  but  very  lazy."  The  word  "  fiend,"  as  used 
here,  means  "  spirit'*  or  "  goblin,"  without  any  necessary  reference  to  his 
malignant  character. 


1 6  MILTON, 

And,  stretched  out  all  the  chimney's  length, 

Basks  at  the  fire  his  hairy  strength, 

And  cropful  out  of  doors  he  flings, 

Ere  the  first  cock  his  matin  rings. 

Thus  done  the  tales,  to  bed  they  creep, 

By  whispering  winds  soon  lulled  asleep. 

Towered  cities  please  us  then, 

And  the  busy  hum  of  men,i 

Where  throngs  of  knights  and  barons  bold. 

In  weeds  2  of  peace,  high  triumphs  hold,  120 

With  store  of  ladies,  whose  bright  eyes 

Rain  influence,  and  judge  the  prize 

Of  wit  or  arms,  while  both  contend 

To  win  her  grace  whom  all  commend. 

There  let  Hymen  ^  oft  appear 

In  saffron  robe,  with  taper  clear. 

And  pomp,  and  feast,  and  revelry. 

With  mask  and  antique  pageantry ; 

Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream 

On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream.  130 

Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon, 

If  Jonson*s  learned  sock  ^  be  on. 

Or  sweetest  Shakespeare,  Fancy's  child, 

1  "  Towered  cities,"  etc.,  i.  e.,  taking  our  leave  now  of  the  sleeping  rustics, 
we  go  to  enjoy  the  scenes  and  pleasures  of  city  life,  the  tournament,  the 
theater,  and  the  wedding  festival. 

2  From  Anglo-Saxon,  waed  (/'  clothing"). 

3  The  god  of  marriage.  He  is  represented  in  modern  poetry  as  dressed 
in  a  saffron-colored  robe ;  and  in  works  of  art,  as  bearing  a  torch. 

^  The  sock  was  the  low  shoe  worn  by  actors  of  comedy  in  ancient  Greece 
and  Rome ;  hence  the  word  is  used  as  a  symbol  of  the  comic  drama.  Ben 
Jonson  (English  dramatist,  1 574-1637)  wrote  several  famous  comedies,  and 
the  allusion  to  "  Jonson's  learned  sock  "  was  doubtless  intended  as  a  com- 
pliment to  his  erudition.  Note  how  happily  Milton  contrasts  Shakespeare, 
nature's  own  poet,  and  master  of  the  romantic  drama,  with  Jonson,  the  schol- 
arly master  of  the  classical  drama. 


r  ALLEGRO.  17 

Warble  his  native  wood-notes  wild. 

And  ever,  against  eating  cares, 

Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  ^  airs. 

Married  ^  to  immortal  verse, 

Such  as  the  meeting  ^  soul  may  pierce, 

In  notes  with  many  a  winding  bout 

Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out  140 

With  wanton  heed  and  giddy  cunning, 

The  melting  voice  through  mazes  running, 

Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 

The  hidden  soul  of  harmony ; 

That  Orpheus^  ^  self  may  heave  his  head 

From  golden  slumber  on  a  bed 

Of  heaped  Elysian  ^  flowers,  and  hear 

Such  strains  as  would  have  won  the  ear 

Of  Pluto  to  have  quite  set  free 

His  half-regained  Eurydice.         .  150 

These  delights  if  thou  canst  give. 

Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean  to  live. 

1  The  soft,  voluptuous  music  of  the  Lydians  as  opposed  to  the  harsher 
Phrygian  or  Dorian  music.  "  Lap  "  is  a  corruption  of  the  word  **  wrap," 
meaning  to  infold. 

2  Joined  inseparably. 

3  Appreciative. 

*  Orpheus  was  the  most  famous  of  all  musicians.  His  wife  Eurydice  hav- 
ing died,  he  descended  into  Hades  to  bring  her  back  to  life.  Charmed  by 
the  sweetness  of  his  music,  Pluto  consented  that  Eurydice  should  return  with 
him  to  the  upper  world,  on  condition  that  he  should  not  look  back  until  they 
were  safely  outside  the  bounds  of  Hades.  When  almost  out,  however,  Or- 
pheus, forgetting  himself,  turned  around  to  see  if  she  were  coming,  and  she 
vanished  from  his  sight. 

5  The  Elysian  Fields,  or  Isles  of  the  B^est,  were  the  regions  where  those 
who  were  beloved  of  the  gods  dwelt  in  happiness,  wandering  among  flowers 
and  enjoying  all  the  beauties  which  delight  the  senses  or  the  imagination. 
2 


MILTON, 


IL   PENSEROSO. 

Hence,  vain  deluding  Joys, 

The  brood  of  Folly  without  father  bred ! 
How  little  you  bested,^ 

Or  fill  the  fixed  ^  mind  with  all  your  toys ! 
Dwell  in  some  idle  brain, 

And  fancies  fond  ^  with  gaudy  shapes  possess,^ 
As  thick  and  numberless 

As  the  gay  motes  that  people  the  sunbeams, 
Or  likest  hovering  dreams. 

The  fickle  pensioners  of  Morpheus'^  train.  lo 

But,  hail !  thou  Goddess  ^  sage  and  holy ! 
Hail,  divinest  Melancholy! 
Whose  saintly  visage  is  too  bright 
To  hit  ^  the  sense  of  human  sight. 
And  therefore  to  our  weaker  view 
O'erlaid  with  black,  staid  Wisdom's  hue; 
Black,  but  such  as  in  esteem 
Prince  Memnon's  ^  sister  might  beseem. 
Or  that  starred  Ethiope  queen  ^  that  strove 

1  Help  ;  avail.      Used  now  rarely,  and  only  as  a  participle. 

2  Steady;  sober. 

3  The  word  "  fond  "  has  here  its  original  meaning,  "  foolish." 
*  Fill,  or  occupy. 

5  Morpheus  ("  the  shaper  ")  was  the  son  of  Sleep  and  the  god  of  Dreams. 

6  Compare  the  characterization  of  Melancholy  which  follows  with  that  given 
in  the  first  ten  lines  of  L 'Allegro. 

■^  Touch. 

^  Memnon,  the  son  of  Tithonus  and  Aurora,  was  a  king  of  Ethiopia,  slain 
by  Achilles  in  the  siege  of  Troy.  Although  black,  he  was  famed  for  his 
beauty.     His  sister  was  Hemera. 

^  Cassiopeia,  Queen  of  Ethiopia,  boasted  that  the  beauty  of  her  daughter 
Andromeda  exceeded  that  of  the  Nereids,  or  sea  nymphs.     Both  mother  and 


IL   PENSEROSO,  19 

To  set  her  beauty's  praise  above  20 

The  Sea  Nymphs,  and  their  powers  offended. 

Yet  thou  art  higher  far  descended : 

Thee  bright-haired  Vesta  long  of  yore 

To  soHtary  Saturn  bore;i 

His  daughter  she  ;  in  Saturn's  reign 

Such  mixture  was  not  held  a  stain. 

Oft  in  glimmering  bowers  and  glades 

He  met  her,  and  in  secret  shades 

Of  woody  Ida's  ^  inmost  grove, 

Whilst  yet  there  was  no  fear  of  Jove.  30 

Come,  pensive  Nun,  devout  and  pure, 

Sober,  steadfast,  and  demure. 

All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain,^ 

Flowing  with  majestic  train, 

And  sable  stole  of  cypress  lawn  * 

Over  thy  decent  ^  shoulders  drawn. 

Come ;  but  keep  thy  wonted  state, 

With  even  step,  and  musing  gait, 

daughter  were  "starred,"  i.e.,  transferred  to  the  skies  as  constellations  of 
stars.  Cassiopeia  is  represented  in  old  astronomical  prints  as  a  black  female 
figure  marked  with  white  stars. 

1  This  conception  of  the  parentage  of  Melancholy  is  as  fanciful  as  that 
in  L'Allegro  of  the  parentage  of  Mirth,  and  is  equally  original  with  Milton. 
Vesta  was  the  goddess  of  the  domestic  hearth,  and  therefore  symbolizes  quiet 
contemplation ;  while  Saturn,  the  son  of  Heaven  (Uranus)  and  Earth  (Terra), 
represents  retirement.  By  "  Saturn's  reign  "  is  meant  the  golden  age  of  the 
innocence  of  the  human  race,  while  there  was  "  yet  no  fear  of  Jove." 

2  There  were  several  mountains  called  Ida.  The  one  here  alluded  to  is  on 
the  island  of  Crete,  and  was  a  favorite  trysting  place  of  the  gods. 

3  Tyrian  purple.  The  word  "  grain  "  was  applied  to  the  dried  body  of  an 
insect  (the  size  of  a  seed  or  grain)  from  which  the  Tyrian  dy^  was  obtained ; 
afterwards  it  was  applied  to  the  dye  itself  and  to  the  color  produced  by  it. 

4  *'  Stole  of  cypress  lawn,"  i.e.,  robe  of  crape  of  the  finest  kind.  The 
word  "cypress,"  used  alone,  denotes  crape,  while  lawn  denotes  the  finest 
quality  of  cloth. 

5  Comely;  graceful. 


20  MILTON. 

And  looks  commercing  with  the  skies, 

Thy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes :  40 

There,  held  in  holy  passion  still, 

Forget  thyself  to  marble,^  till 

With  a  sad  leaden  downward  cast 

Thou  fix  them  on  the  earth  as  fast. 

And  join  with  thee  calm  Peace  and  Quiet, 

Spare  Fast,  that  oft  with  gods  doth  diet, 

And  hears  the  Muses  ^  in  a  ring 

Aye-*^  round  about  Jove's  altar  sing ; 

And  add  to  these  retired  Leisure, 

That  in  trim  gardens  takes  his  pleasure ;  50 

But,  first  and  chief  est,  with  thee  bring 

Him  that  yon  soars  on  golden  wing, 

Guiding  the  fiery- wheeled  throne,^ 

The  Cherub  Contemplation ; 

And  the  mute  Silence  hist  ^  along, 

'Less  Philomel  ^  will  deign  a  song, 

In  her  sweetest  saddest  phght. 

Smoothing  the  rugged  brow  of  Night, 

While  Cynthia  "^  checks  her  dragon  yoke 

1  **  Forget  thyself,"  etc.,  i.e.,  become  as  insensible  to  your  surroundings 
as  a  statue. 

2  The  nine  Muses  were  the  daughters  of  Jupiter  and  Mnemosyne.  They 
were :  Calliope,  Muse  of  epic  poetry ;  Clio,  Muse  of  history ;  Erato,  Muse  of 
love  ditties ;  Euterpe,  Muse  of  lyric  poetry ;  Melpomene,  Muse  of  tragedy ; 
Polyhymnia,  Muse  of  sacred  poetry;  Terpsichore,  Muse  of  choral  song  and 
dance ;  Thalia,  Muse  of  comedy ;  and  Urania,  Muse  of  astronomy. 

S  Always ;  forever. 

*  See  Ezekiel  x.  i,  2,  and  6.  Ezekiel  describes  a  vision  of  a  sapphire 
throne,  the  wheels  of  which  were  four  cherubs,  each  wheel  or  cherub  being 
full  of  eyes  all  over,  while  in  the  midst  of  them  and  underneath  the  throne 
was  a  burning  fire.  Milton  brings  into  his  company  one  of  these  cherubs, 
whom  he  names  Contemplation. 

5  Hush,  or  whisper. 

6  **  'Less  Philomel,"  i.e.,  unless  the  nightingale. 

"^  A  name  for  the  goddess  of  the  moon.     Cynthia's  chariot  was  drawn  by 


IL  PENSEROSO.  2i 

Gently  o'er  the  accustomed  oak.i  60 

Sweet  bird,  that  shunn'st  the  noise  of  folly, 

Most  musical,  most  melancholy! 

Thee,  chauntress,^  oft  the  woods  among 

I  woo,  to  hear  thy  evensong ; 

And,  missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen 

On  the  dry  smooth-shaven  green. 

To  behold  the  wandering  moon, 

Riding  near  her  highest  noon. 

Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray 

Through  the  heaven's  wide  pathless  way,  70 

And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bowed, 

Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 

Oft,  on  a  plat  of  rising  ground, 

I  hear  the  far-off  curfew  ^  sound, 

Over  some  wide-watered  shore. 

Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar ; 

Or,  if  the  air  will  not  permit. 

Some  still  removed  place  will  fit. 

Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room 

Teach  hght  to  counterfeit  a  gloom,  80 

Far  from  all  resort  of  mirth, 

Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth. 

Or  the  bellman's  ^  drowsy  charm 

horses  and  not  by  dragons,  as  here  represented.  It  was  Ceres,  the  goddess 
of  plenty,  who  had  a  "  dragon  yoke."  Shakespeare  several  times  alludes  to 
the  dragon  team  of  night. 

1  "  Accustomed  oak,"  i.e.,  the  oak  where  the  nightingale  was  accustomed 
to  sing  and  the  poet  was  wont  to  listen  to  her. 

2  Songstress. 

3  From  French,  couvre-feii  (''cover  fire");  the  bell  which  was  rung  in 
the  evening  as  a  signal  that  all  fires  were  to  be  covered  and  all  lights  extin- 
guished. The  custom,  which  was  instituted  as  a  law  by  William  the  Con- 
queror, was  still  quite  generally  observed  in  Milton's  time. 

*  The  watchman  who  patrolled  the  streets  and  called  out  the  hour  of  night. 
Sometimes  he  repeated  scraps  of  pious  poetry  in  order  to  charm  away  danger. 


2  2  MILTON. 

To  bless  the  doors  from  nightly  harm. 

Or  let  my  lamp,  at  midnight  hour, 

Be  seen  in  some  high  lonely  tower. 

Where  I  may  oft  outwatch  the  Bear,i 

With  thrice-great  Hermes,^  or  unsphere 

The  spirit  of  Plato,  to  unfold 

What  worlds  or  what  vast  regions  hold  90 

The  immortal  mind  that  hath  forsook 

Her  mansion  in  this  fleshly  nook  ;^ 

And  of  those  demons  that  are  found 

In  fire,  air,  flood,  or  underground. 

Whose  power  hath  a  true  consent  ^ 

With  planet  or  with  element. 

Sometime  let  gorgeous  Tragedy 

In  sceptered  pall  ^  come  sweeping  by, 

Presenting  Thebes,^  or  Pelops'  line. 

Or  the  tale  of  Troy  divine,  100 

Or  what  (though  rare)  of  later  age 

Ennobled  hath  the  buskined  '^  stage. 

But,  O  sad  Virgin!  that  thy  power 

1  The  constellation  of  the  Great  Bear,  which  in  these  latitudes  never  sets. 
To  "  outwatch  the  Bear  "  would  be  to  remain  awake  until  daybreak. 

2  Hermes  Trismegistus,  an  ancient  Egyptian  philosopher,  the  supposed 
author  of  certain  once-famous  works  on  philosophy. 

2  **  Unsphere  the  spirit  of  Plato,"  etc.,  i.e.,  study  Plato's  philosophy  of 
the  immortality  of  the  soul,  and  of  the  relation  of  the  spirits  (**  demons  ")  to 
the  four  elements,  earth,  air,  fire,  and  water,  over  which  they  presided.  The 
literal  meaning  of  the  phrase  is  "  bring  back  the  disembodied  spirit  of  Plato 
from  the  sphere  which  he  now  inhabits." 

4  Sympathy. 

5  "  Sceptered  pall,"  i.e.,  royal  robes. 

6  The  three  most  popular  subjects  of  Greek  tragedy  were  those  relating  to 
the  city  of  Thebes,  to  the  descendants  of  Pelops  (an  early  king  of  Greece), 
and  to  the  memorable  war  with  Troy. 

'^  The  buskin  was  the  high-heeled  boot  worn  by  the  actors  of  tragedy  in 
the  theaters  of  ancient  Greece.  It  is  therefore  sometimes  used  as  a  symbol  of 
the  tragic  drama.     See  note  on  "  sock,"  L' Allegro,  line  132. 


IL   PENSEROSO.  23 

Might  raise  Musaeus  ^  from  his  bower ; 

Or  bid  the  soul  of  Orpheus  sing 

Such  notes  as,  warbled  to  the  string, 

Drew  iron  tears  down  Pluto's  cheek. 

And  made  Hell  grant  what  love  did  seek; 2 

Or  call  up  him  that  left  half  told 

The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold,  no 

Of  Camball,  and  of  Algarsife, 

And  who  had  Canace  to  wife. 

That  owned  the  virtuous  ring  and  glass ; 

And  of  the  wondrous  horse  of  brass 

On  which  the  Tartar  king  did  ride  ;^ 

And  if  aught  else  great  bards  ^  beside 

In  sage  and  solemn  tunes  have  sung. 

Of  turneys,  and  of  trophies  hung, 

Of  forests,  and  enchantments  drear, 

Where  more  is  meant  than  meets  the  ear.  120 

Thus,  Night,  oft  see  me  in  thy  pale  career. 

Till  civil-suited  ^  Morn  appear. 

Not  tricked  and  frounced,  as  she  was  wont 

With  the  Attic  boy  ^  to  hunt. 

But  kerchieft  '^  in  a  comely  cloud, 

1  An  ancient  Greek  minstrel,  or  poet. 

2  See  note  on  L'Allegro,  line  145. 

3  **  Or  call  up  him,"  etc.  An  allusion  to  the  poet  Chaucer  (1340- 1400) 
and  the  poem  The  Squiers  Tale,  which  he  left  unfinished.  In  this  tale 
Cambuscan  is  a  king  of  Tartary;  Camball  and  Algarsife  are  his  sons;  and 
Canac^  is  his  daughter.  The  horse  of  brass  is  a  present  from  a  neighboring 
king,  as  are  also  Canace's  ring  and  glass.  The  word  **  virtuous "  here 
means  **  having  magic  power." 

4  "  And  if  aught  else,"  etc.  A  reference  probably  to  the  poets  Ariosto, 
Tasso,  and  Spenser,  and  the  romantic  character  and  underlying  moral  purpose 
of  their  works. 

5  Contrast  this  description  of  Morning  with  that  in  L'Allegro. 
^  Cephalus,  an  Athenian  youth,  beloved  by  Aurora. 

^  Having  the  head  covered,  as  with  a  kerchief, 


24  ,  MILTON, 

While  rocking  winds  are  piping  loud, 

Or  ushered  with  a  shower  still, 

When  the  gust  hath  blown  his  ^  fill. 

Ending  on  the  rustling  leaves. 

With  minute  drops  ^  from  off  the  eaves.  130 

And,  when  the  sun  begins  to  fling 

His  flaring  beams,  me.  Goddess,  bring 

To  arched  walks  of  twilight  groves, 

And  shadows  brown,  that  Sylvan  ^  loves, 

Of  pine,  or  monumental  oak. 

Where  the  rude  ax  with  heaved  stroke 

Was  never  heard  the  nymphs  to  daunt. 

Or  fright  them  from  their  hallowed  haunt. 

There,  in  close  covert,  by  some  brook. 

Where  no  profaner  eye  may  look,  '         140 

Hide  me  from  day*s  garish  eye,  * 

While  the  bee  with  honeyed  thigh^ 

That  at  her  flowery  work  doth  sing, 

And  the  waters  murmuring. 

With  such  consort  ^  as  they  keep. 

Entice  the  dewy-feathered  Sleep. 

And  let  some  strange  mysterious  dream 

Wave  at  his  wings,  in  airy  stream 

Of  lively  portraiture  displayed, 

Softly  on  my  eyeHds  laid  ;  150 

And,  as  I  wake,  sweet  music  breathe 

Above,  about,  or  underneath, 

Sent  by  some  Spirit  to  mortals  good, 

Or  the  unseen  Genius  of  the  wood. 

1  Its. 

2  *'  Minute  drops,"  i.e.,  drops  falling  slowly  and  at  regular  intervals  as 
the  shower  comes  to  an  end.     Compare  with  ''  minute  gun.'* 

3  Sylvanus,  the  god  of  the  woods. 

*  "  Day's  garish  eye,"  i.e.,  the  dazzling  sun. 
5  Concert ;  harmony. 


IL    PENSEROSO.  25 

But  let  my  due  feet  1  never  fail 

To  walk  the  studious  cloister's  pale,^ 

And  love  the  high  embowed  ^  roof, 

With  antique  pillars  massy  proof,* 

And  storied  windows  ^  richly  digh<-. 

Casting  a  dim  rehgious  hght.  160 

There  let  the  pealing  organ  blow. 

To  the  full-voiced  quire  ^  below, 

In  service  high  and  anthems  clear. 

As  may  with  sweetness,  through  mine  ear, 

Dissolve  me  into  ecstasies. 

And  bring  all  heaven  before  mine  eyes. 

And  may  at  last  my  weary  age 

Find  out  the  peaceful  hermitage. 

The  hairy  gown  and  mossy  cell, 

Where  I  may  sit  and  rightly  spell  170 

Of  every  star  that  heaven  doth  shew. 

And  every  herb  that  sips  the  dew,"^ 

Till  old  experience  do  attain 

To  something  Hke  prophetic  strain.^ 

These  pleasures.  Melancholy,  give ; 

And  I  with  thee  will  choose  to  live. 

1  **  Due  feet,"  i.e.,  feet  that  are  due  at  a  certain  place  at  a  certain  time. 

2  **  To  walk,"  etc.,  i.e.,  to  resort  to  the  precincts  or  inclosure  of  some 
building  devoted  to  study  or  religious  meditation.  The  word  *'  pale  "  means 
here  **  inclosure  "  or  "  boundary." 

3  Arched. 

*  Massive  enough  to  be  proof  against  the  great  weight  which  they  are 
intended  to  support. 

°  **  Storied  windows,"  i.e.,  windows  of  stained  glass  with  Scripture  stories 
represented  on  them. 

6  Old  spelling  of  choir. 

^  "^Rightly  spell,"  etc.,  i.e.,  study  aright  the  phenomena  of  nature. 

8  Utterance. 


COMUS:   A  MASQUE. 


THE    PERSONS. 


The  Attendant  Spirit,  after- 
wards in  the  habit  of  Thyrsis. 
CoMUS,  with  his  Crew. 
The  Lady. 


First  Brother. 
Second  Brother. 
Sabrina,  the  Nymph, 


The  first   Scene   discovers   a    Wild   Wood. 
The  Attendant  Spirit  descends  or  enters. 

Before  the  starry  threshold  of  Jove's  court 

My  mansion  is,  where  those  immortal  shapes 

Of  bright  aerial  spirits  live  insphered  ^ 

In  regions  mild  of  calm  and  serene  air,  > 

Above  the  smoke  and  stir  of  this  dim  spot 

Which  men  call  Earth,  and,  with  low-thoughted  care, 

Confined  and  pestered  ^  in  this  pinfold  ^  here, 

Strive  to  keep  up  a  frail  and  feverish  being. 

Unmindful  of  the  crown  that  Virtue  gives. 

After  this  mortal  change,  to  her  true  servants      ^^        lo 

Amongst  the  enthroned  gods  on  sainted  seats. 

Yet  some  there  be  that  by  due  steps  aspire 

1  In  the  sphere  assigned  to  them.     Compare  with  II  Penseroso,  hile  88. 

2  Encumbered.     **  Pester  "  originally  meant  *'  a  clog  for  horses  in  a  paSv 
ture,"  hence,  in  its  verbal  signification,  "  to  impede." 

3  A.  pound,  pen,  fold,  or  inclosure  for  confining  stray  cattle. 

36 


COMUS:   A   MASQUE,  27 

To  lay  their  just  hands  on  that  golden  key  ^ 
That  opes  the  palace  of  eternity. 
To  such  my  errand  is ;  and,  but  for  such, 
I  would  not  aoil  these  pure  ambrosial  weeds  2 
With  the  rank  vapors  of  this  sin-worn  mold.*^ 

But  to  my  task.     Neptune  ^  besides  the  sway 
Of  every  salt 'flood  and  each  ebbing  stream,         ^v^ 
Took  in  by  lot,  'twixt  high  and  nether  Jove,^  20 

Imperial  rule  of  all  the  seagirt  isles 
That,  Hke  to  rich  and  various  gems,  inlay 
The  unadorned  bosom  of  the  deep ; 
Which  he,  to  grace  his  tributary  gods. 
By  course  commits  to  several  ^  government, 
And  gives  them  leave  to  wear  their  sapphire  crowns. 
And  wield  their  httle  tridents.  '  But  this  Isle,*^ 
The  greatest  and  the  best  of  all  the  main, 
He  quarters  to  his  blue-haired  deities  ;^ 

1  "Yet  some,"  etc.  St.  Peter  is  represented  as  carrying  the  golden  key 
with  which  to  unlock  the  gates  of  heaven  (see  Lycidas,  line  110).  Milton 
here  means  that  there  are  some  who  by  their  virtuous  lives  strive  to  merit 
admittance  into  heaven. 

2  "  Ambrosial  weeds,"  i.e.,  immortal  garments.  Ambrosia  was  the  food 
of  the  gods.      For  "  weeds,"  see  note  on  L' Allegro,  line  120. 

3  World. 

4  The  god  of  the  sea  and  of  all  waters.  His  scepter  was  a  three-pronged 
fork,  or  trident. 

5  **  Took  in  by  lot,"  etc.  The  sons  of  Saturn,  after  the  dethronement  of 
their  father,  divided  the  government  of  the  world  by  lot  among  themselves. 
Jupiter  (high  Jove)  obtained  the  heavens  and  the  mainland;  Neptune,  the  sea 
and  its  islands ;   and  Pluto  (nether  Jove),  the  infernal  regions. 

6  Separate. 

"^  Great  Britain. 

8  '*  Quarters  to,"  etc.,  i.e.,  assigns  to  the  deities  of  the  sea.  Neptune  and 
his  subordinates  are  referred  to  in  classical  poetry  as  "  green-haired."  Pos- 
sibly Milton  adopted  "  blue-haired  "  as  more  fitly  symbolizing  the  seAvaves  ; 
perhaps,  also,  he  had  in  mind  the  blue-stained  Britons  who  fought  with 
Coesar. 


28  MILTON. 

And  all  this  tract  ^  that  fronts  the  falling  sun  30 

A  noble  Peer  ^  of  mickle  ^  trust  and  power 

Has  in  his  charge,  with  tempered  awe  to  guide 

An  old  and  haughty  nation,*  proud  in  arms : 

Where  his  fair  offspring,^  nursed  in  princely  lore, 

Are  coming  to  attend  their  father's  state. 

And  new-intrusted  scepter.     But  their  way 

Lies  through  the  perplexed  paths  of  this  drear  wood,^ 

The  nodding  horror  of  whose  shady  brows 

Threats  the  forlorn  and  wandering  passenger ; 

And  here  their  tender  age  might  suffer  peril,  40 

But  that,  by  quick  command  from  sovran  Jove, 

I  was  dispatched  for  their  defense  and  guard : 

And  listen  why ;  for  I  will  tell  you  now 

What  never  yet  was  heard  in  tale  or  song. 

From  old  or  modern  bard,  in  hall  or  bower. 

Bacchus,"^  that  first  from  out  the  purple  grape 
Crushed  the  sweet  poison  of  misused  wine. 
After  the  Tuscan  mariners  transformed. 
Coasting  the  Tyrrhene  ^  shore,  as  the  winds  listed. 
On  Circe's  island^  fell.     (Who  knows  not  Circe,  50 

The  daughter  of  the  Sun,  whose  charmed  cup 

1  Wales.  2  The  Earl  of  Bridgewater  (see  Introduction,  p.  7). 

3  Great ;  much.  *  The  Welsh. 

5  The  three  children  of  the  Earl  of  Bridgewater,  who  were  now  coming  to 
Ludlow  Castle  on  the  occasion  of  their  father's  induction  into  office. 

6  This  is  probably  an  allusion  to  the  densely  wooded  region  of  Shropshire  * 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Ludlow  Castle. 

'<'  The  god  of  wine  and  revelry. 

s  Italian.  The  story  is  that  on  one  occasion  Tuscan  pirates  attempted  to 
carry  Bacchus  to  Italy  to  sell  him  as  a  slave.  Suddenly  the  chains  dropped 
from  his  limbs  and  he  assumed  the  form  of  a  lion.  The  ship  stood  still  while 
vines  grew  up  and  entwined  themselves  round  the  mast  and  sails ;  and  the 
pirates,^in  terror,  leaped  into  the  sea,  where  they  were  transformed  into 
dolphins. 

^  yEsea,  near  the  shore  of  Tuscany. 


COM  US:   A    MASQUE.  29 

Whoever  tasted  lost  his  upright  shape, 

And  downward  fell  into  a  groveling  swine?) 

This  Nymph,  that  gazed  upon  his  clustering  locks, 

With  ivy  berries  wreathed,  and  his  blithe  youth. 

Had  by  him,  ere  he  parted  thence,  a  son 

Much  like  his  father,  but  his  mother  more. 

Whom  therefore  she  brought  up,  and  Comus  ^  named : 

Who,  ripe  and  frolic  of  his  full-grown  age^ 

Roving  the  Celtic  and  Iberian  fields,^  60 

At  last  betakes  him  to  this  ominous  wood. 

And,  in  thick  shelter  of  black  shades  embowered. 

Excels  his  mother  at  her  mighty  art ; 

Offering  to  every  weary  traveler 

His  orient  liquor  in  a  crystal  glass. 

To  quench  the  drouth  of  Phoebus;^  which  as  they  taste 

(For  most  do  taste  through  fond  intemperate  thirst), 

Soon  as  the  potion  works,  their  human  count'nance. 

The  express  resemblance  of  the  gods,  is  changed 

Into  some  brutish  form  of  wolf  or  bear,  70 

Or  ounce  or  tiger,  hog,  or  bearded  goat, 

All  other  parts  remaining  as  they  were. 

And  they,  so  perfect  is  their  misery, 

Not  once  perceive  their  foul  disfigurement. 

But  boast  themselves  more  comely  than  before, 

And  all  their  friends  and  native  home  forget, 

To  roll  with  pleasure  in  a  sensual  sty. 

Therefore,  when  any  favored  of  high  Jove 

Chances  to  pass  through  this  adventurous  glade, 

Swift  as  the  sparkle  of  a  glancing  star  80 

I  shoot  from  heaven,  to  give  him  safe  convoy, 

1  This  genealogy  of  Comus  is  purely  the  invention  of  Milton's  fancy,  and 
has  no  warrant  in  ancient  mythology. 

2  "  Celtic,"  etc.,  i.e.,  France  and  Spain. 

^  ■'*  Drouth,"  etc.,  i.e.,  the  thirst  caused  by  the  sun's  heat.      Phoebus  was 
the  sun  god,  or  personification  of  the  sun. 


30  MILTON. 

As  now  I  do.     But  first  I  must  put  off 
.  These  my  sky  robes,  spun  out  of  Iris'  ^  woof, 
And  take  the  weeds  and  Hkeness  of  a  swain 
That  to  the  service  of  this  house  belongs; 
Who,  with  his  soft  pipe  and  smooth-dittied  song, 
Well  knows  ^  to  still  the  wild  winds  when  they  roar, 
And  hush  the  waving  woods ;  nor  of  less  faith, 
And  in  this  office  of  his  mountain  watch 
Likeliest,  and  nearest  to  the  present  aid  90  ^ 

Of  this  occasion.     But  I  hear  the  tread 
Of  hateful  steps ;  I  must  be  viewless  now. 

Com  us  enters,  with  a  charming-rod  in  one  hand,  his  glass  in  the  other;  with 
him  a  rout  of  monsters,  headed  like  sundry  sorts  of  ivild  beasts,  but  other^ 
wise  like  men  and  women,  their  apparel  glistering.^  They  come  in  making 
a  riotous  and  unruly  noise,  with  torches  in  their  hands, 

Comus.    The  star  ^  that  bids  the  shepherd  fold  ^ 
Now  the  top  of  heaven  doth  hold ; 
And  the  gilded  car  of  day 
His  glowing  axle  doth  allay 
In  the  steep  Atlantic  stream  ;6 
And  the  slope  sun  his  upward  beam 
Shoots  against  the  dusky  pole, 

Pacing  towards  the  other  goal  100 

Of  his  chamber  in  the  east.'^ 
Meanwhile,  welcome  joy  and  feast, 

1  The  personification  of  the  rainbow.  It  may  be  inferred  that  the  Attendant 
Spirit's  sky  robes  were  of  the  colors  of  the  rainbow. 

2  Supply  **  how."  3  Glittering. 
*  The  evening  star,  Hesperus  or  Venus. 

5  Drive  his  sheep  into  the  fold. 

^  **  In  the  steep,"  etc.,  i.e.,  in  the  sloping  Atlantic  flood,  where  it  curves 
below  the  western  horizon. 

7  "  Pacing  towards,"  etc.,  i.e.,  returning  towards  his  rising  place  in  the 
east. 


COM  US:   A    MASQUE.  31 

Midnight  shout  and  revelry, 

Tipsy  dance  and  jollity. 

Braid  your  locks  with  rosy  twine,^ 

Dropping  odors,  dropping  wine. 

Rigor  now  is  gone  to  bed ; 

And  Advice  with  scrupulous  head. 

Strict  Age,  and  sour  Severity, 

With  their  grave  saws,^  in  slumber  lie.  no 

We,  that  are  of  purer  fire. 

Imitate  the  starry  quire,^ 

Who,  in  their  nightly  watchful  spheres. 

Lead  in  swift  round  the  months  and  years. 

The  sounds  and  seas,  with  all  their  finny  drove, 

Now  to  the  moon  in  wavering  morrice^  move; 

And  on  the  tawny  sands  and  shelves 

Trip  the  pert  fairies  and  the  dapper  elves. 

By  dimpled  brook  and  fountain  brim. 

The  wood  nymphs,  decked  with  daisies  trim,  120 

Their  merry  wakes  ^  and  pastimes  keep : 

What  hath  night  to  do  with  sleep  ? 

Night  hath  better  sweets  to  prove ; 

Venus  ^  now  wakes,  and  wakens  Love. 

Come,  let  us  our  rites  begin  ; 

Tis  only  daylight  that  makes  sin. 

Which  these  dun  shades  will  ne'er  report. — 

Hail,  goddess  of  nocturnal  sport, 

1  Roses  twined  together.  2  Wise  sayings  ;  sober  rules. 

3  Choir.  Used  here,  perhaps,  with  its  original  signification,  a  band  of 
choral  dancers.  The  poet  has  also  in  mind  the  ancient  notion  of  the  music 
of  the  spheres. 

*  The  morris,  or  Moorish  dance,  was  introduced  into  England  in  the  reign 
of  Edward  III.  It  was  a  prominent  feature  of  the  May  Day  and  other  out- 
door festivities. 

5  Nocturnal  amusements.  Originally  a  *'  wake  "  was  the  watch  or  sitting 
up  till  late  before  one  of  the  church  holidays. 

6  Goddess  of  love  and  beauty. 


3?  MILTON. 

Dark-veiled  Cotytto/  to  whom  the  secret  flame 

Of  midnight  torches  burns!  mysterious  dame,  130 

That  ne'er  art  called  but  when  the  dragon  womb 

Of  Stygian  darkness  ^  spets  ^  her  thickest  gloom, 

And  makes  one  blot  of  all  the  air! 

Stay  thy  cloudy  ebon  chair, 

Wherein  thou  ridest  with  Hecat',^  and  befriend 

Us  thy  vowed  priests,  till  utmost  end 

Of  all  thy  dues  be  done,  and  none  left  out; 

Ere  the  blabbing  eastern  scout. 

The  nice  Morn  on  the  Indian  steep. 

From  her  cabined  loophole  peep,^  140 

And  to  the  telltale  Sun  descry 

Our  concealed  solemnity. 

Come,  knit  hands,  and  beat  the  ground 

In  a  hght  fantastic  round. ^  \The  Measure^ 

Break  off,  break  off !  "^  I  feel  the  different  pace 
Of  some  chaste  footing  near  about  this  ground. 
Run  to  your  shrouds  ^  within  these  brakes  and  trees ; 
Our  number  may  affright.     Some  virgin  sure 
(For  so  I  can  distinguish  by  mine  art) 
Benighted  in  these  woods  !      Now  to  my  charms,        150 
And  to  my  wily  trains :  ^  I  shall  ere  long 
Be  well  stocked  with  as  fair  a  herd  as  grazed 
About  my  mother  Circe.     Thus  I  hurl 
My  dazzling  spells  into  the  spongy  "^^  air, 

1  A  Thracian  goddess  whose  licentious  festivals  were  celebrated  at  night. 

2  *'  Stygian  darkness,"  i.e.,  the  darkness  of  the  infernal  regions.     See  note 
on  L'Allegro,  line  3. 

3  Spits ;  ejects. 

4  Hecate,  the  goddess  of  sorcery,  supposed  to  preside  over  all  nocturnal 
horrors. 

5  ''Nice  Morn,"  etc.,   i.e.,  the  fastidious  dawn  peeps  from  among  the 
clouds  on  the  eastern  (Indian)  horizon. 

6  Dance;  measure.  '^  **  Break  off,"  i.e.,  cease  dancing. 

8  Hiding  places.  ^  Allurements.  10  Absorbent. 


COM  US:   A    MASQUE.  ZZ 

Of  power  to  cheat  the  eye  with  blear  ^  illusion, 

And  give  it  false  presentments,  lest  the  place 

And  my  quaint  habits  breed  astonishment, 

And  put  the  damsel  to  suspicious  flight ; 

Which  must  not  be,  for  that's  against  my  course. 

I,  under  fair  pretense  of  friendly  ends,  i6o 

And  well-placed  words  of  glozing  2  courtesy, 

Baited  with  reasons  not  unplausible. 

Wind  me  into  the  easy-hearted  man, 

And  hug  him  into  snares.     When  once  her  eye 

Hath  met  the  virtue  ^  of  this  magic  dust, 

I  shall  appear  some  harmless  villager. 

Whom  thrift  keeps  up  about  his  country  gear.^ — 

But  here  she  comes ;  I  fairly  step  aside, 

And  hearken,  if  I  may,  her  business  here. 

The  Lady  enters. 

Lady.    This  way  the  noise  was,  if  mine  ear  be  true,    170 
My  best  guide  now.     Methought  it  was  the  sound 
Of  riot  and  ill-managed  merriment. 
Such  as  the  jocund  flute  or  gamesome  pipe 
Stirs  up  among  the  loose  unlettered  hinds,^ 
When,  for  their  teeming  flocks  and  granges  full. 
In  wanton  dance  they  praise  the  bounteous  Pan,^ 
And  thank  the  gods  amiss."^     I  should  be  loath 
To  meet  the  rudeness  and  swilled  insolence 
Of  such  late  wassailers  ;  yet,  oh !  where  else 
Shall  I  inform  my  unacquainted  feet  180 

In  the  blind  mazes  of  this  tangled  wood? 
My  brothers,  when  they  saw  me  wearied  out 

1  Blurred ;  deceitful.  2  Flattering.  3  Peculiar  power. 

4  Business;  duties.  5  Peasants. 

6  God  of  shepherds  and  pastoral  life. 

■^  By  acts  altogether  displeasing  to  them. 

3 


34  MILTON, 

With  this  long  way,  resolving  here  to  lodge 

Under  the  spreading  favor  of  these  pines, 

Stepped,  as  they  said,  to  the  next  thicket  side 

To  bring  me  berries,  or  such  cooHng  fruit 

As  the  kind  hospitable  woods  provide. 

They  left  me  then  when  the  gray-hooded  Even, 

Like  a  sad  votarist  in  palmer's  weed,i 

Rose  from  the  hindmost  wheels  of  Phoebus'  wain.^      190 

But  where  they  are,  and  why  they  came  not  back. 

Is  now  the  labor  of  my  thoughts.     'Tis  likeHest 

They  had  engaged  their  wandering  steps  too  far;^ 

And  envious  darkness,  ere  they  could  return. 

Had  stole  them  from  me.     Else,  O  thievish  Night, 

Why  shouldst  thou,  but  for  some  felonious  end. 

In  thy  dark  lantern  thus  close  up  the  stars 

That  Nature  hung  in  heaven,  and  filled  their  lamps 

With  everlasting  oil,  to  give  due  light 

To  the  misled  and  lonely  traveler?  200 

This  is  the  place,  as  well  as  I  may  guess. 

Whence  even  now  the  tumult  of  loud  mirth 

Was  rife,  and  perfect  in  my  Hstening  ear ; 

Yet  naught  but  single  ^  darkness  do  I  find. 

What  might  this  be  ?     A  thousand  fantasies 

Begin  to  throng  into  my  memory. 

Of  calling  shapes,  and  beckoning  shadows  dire. 

And  airy  tongues  that  syllable  men's  names 

On  sands  and  shores  and  desert  wildernesses. 

These  thoughts  may  startle  well,  but  not  astound         210 

The  virtuous  mind,  that  ever  walks  attended 

By  a  strong  siding  ^  champion.  Conscience.  — 

1  **  Votarist  in  palmer's  weed,"  i.e.,  a  pilgrim  clad  in  the  garb  of  one  re- 
turning from  the  Holy  Sepulcher. 

2  **  Phoebus'  wain,"  i.e.,  the  sun  car.     See  note  on  line  66. 
8  "  Engaged,"  etc.,  i.e.,  had  undertaken  to  go  too  far. 

*  Only.  5  Supporting. 


COMUS:  A   MASQUE,  35 

O,  welcome,  pure-eyed  Faith,  white-handed  Hope, 

Thou  hovering  angel  girt  with  golden  wings, 

And  thou  unblemished  form  of  Chastity  ! 

I  see  ye  visibly,  and  now  believe 

That  He,  the  Supreme  Good,  to  whom  all  things  ill 

Are  but  as  slavish  officers  of  vengeance. 

Would  send  a  glistering  guardian,  if  need  were, 

To  keep  my  life  and  honor  unassailed. —  220 

Was  I  deceived,  or  did  a  sable  cloud 

Turn  forth  her  silver  lining  on  the  night  ? 

I  did  not  err :  there  does  a  sable  cloud 

Turn  forth  her  silver  lining  on  the  night. 

And  casts  a  gleam  over  this  tufted  grove. 

I  cannot  hallo  to  my  brothers,  but 

Such  noise  as  I  can  make  to  be  heard  farthest 

I'll  venture  ;  for  my  new-enlivened  ^  spirits 

Prompt  me,  and  they  perhaps  are  not  far  off. 


SONG. 

Sweet  Echo,"^  sweetest  nymph,  that  liv'st  unseen  230 

Within  thy  airy  shell 
By  slow  Meander's  ^  margent  green, 
And  in  the  violet-embroidered  vale 
Where  the  lovelorn  nightingale 
Nightly  to  thee  her  sad  song  7nourneth  well: 
Canst  thou  not  tell  me  of  a  gentle  pair 
That  likest  thy  Narcissus  are? 

O,  if  thou  have 
Hid  them  in  some  flowery  cave. 

Tell  me  but  where,  240 

1  Encouraged. 

2  The  nymph  Echo  loved  Narcissus ;  as  her  love  was  not  returned,  she 
pined  away  until  nothing  remained  but  her  beautiful  voice. 

3  A  winding  river  in  Asia  Minor. 


36  MILTON. 

Sweet  Queen  of  Parley^  Dajigkter  of  the  Sphere  1 1 
So  jnay^st  thou  be  translated  to  the  skies, 
And  give  resounding  grace  to  all  heaven's  harmonies  I 

Camus.    Can  any  mortal  mixture  of  earth's  mold 
Breathe  such  divine  enchanting  ravishment  ? 
Sure  something  holy  lodges  in  that  breast, 
And  with  these  raptures  moves  the  vocal  air 
To  testify  his  -  hidden  residence. 
How  sweetly  did  they  float  upon  the  wings 
Of  silence,  through  the  empty-vaulted  night,  256 

At  every  fall  smoothing  the  raven  down  ^ 
Of  darkness  till  it  smiled!      I  have  oft  heard 
My  mother  Circe,  with  the  Sirens  ^  three, 
Amidst  the  flowery-kirtled  Naiades,^ 
Culling  their  potent  herbs  and  baleful  drugs. 
Who,  as  they  sung,  would  take  the  prisoned  soul, 
And  lap  it  in  Elysium:^  Scylla  wept, 
And  chid  her  barking  waves  into  attention. 
And  fell  Charybdis  ^  murmured  soft  applause. 
Yet  they  in  pleasing  slumber  lulled  the  sense,  260 

And  in  sweet  madness  robbed  it  of  Itself ; 

1  *'  Queen,"  etc.,  i.e.,  Queen  of  Speech,  Daughter  of  the  Air. 

2  Its.  The  antecedent  of  the  word  is  **  something  holy,"  line  246.  The 
neuter  possessive  pronoun  its  is  of  comparatively  recent  origin.  Spenser  did 
not  use  it  at  all,  nor  is  it  found  anywhere  in  the  authorized  version  of  the 
English  Bible.  It  occurs  but  nine  times  in  Shakespeare's  works  ;  and  Milton 
seems  to  prefer  the  old  form,  his. 

3  **  The  raven  down,"  i.e.,  the  black,  feathery  softness. 

*  Sea  nymphs,  who  by  their  songs  lured  people  to  death.  In  ancient 
mythology  they  had  no  connection  with  Circe. 

5  Nymphs  of  the  fountains  and  streams. 

6  **  Lap  it,"  etc.,  i.e.,  enwrap  it  in  heavenly  bliss.  See  note  on  "  Elysi- 
an,"  L'Allegro,  line  147. 

7  Scylla  and  Charybdis  were  rocks  upon  opposite  sides  of  the  Sicilian 
Straits.  The  myth  states  that  Circe  transformed  the  nymph  Scylla,  who 
lived  under  the  rock  of  that  name,  into  a  barking  dog. 


COM  US:  A    MASQUE,  37 

But  such  a  sacred  and  home-felt  delight, 

Such  sober  certainty  of  waking  bliss, 

I  never  heard  till  now.      I'll  speak  to  her, 

And  she  shall  be  my  queen.  —  Hail,  foreign  wonder! 

Whom  certain  these  rough  shades  did  never  breed. 

Unless  the  goddess  that  in  rural  shrine 

DwelPst  here  with  Pan  or  Sylvan,^  by  blest  song 

Forbidding  every  bleak  unkindly  fog 

To  touch  the  prosperous  growth  of  this  tall  wood.        270 

Lady.    Nay,  gentle  shepherd,  ill  is  lost  that  praise 
That  is  addressed  to  unattending  ears.  ) 
Not  any  boast  of  skill,  but  extreme  shift  2 
How  to  regain  my  severed  company. 
Compelled  me  to  awake  the  courteous  Echo 
To  giwQ  me  answer  from  her  mossy  couch. 

Co7nus.    What    chance,   good   Lady,  hath  bereft  you 
thus  ? 

Lady.    Dim  darkness  and  this  leafy  labyrinth. 

Conius.    Could    that    divide    you    from    near-ushering 
guides  ? 

Lady.    They  left  me  weary  on  a  grassy  turf.  280 

Comus.    By  falsehood,  or  discourtesy,  or  why? 

Lady.    To  seek  i'  the  valley  some  cool  friendly  spring. 

Comus.    And  left  your  fair  side  all  unguarded,  Lady? 

Lady.    They  were  but  twain,  and  purposed  quick  re- 
turn. 

Comus.    Perhaps  forestalling  night  prevented  them. 

Lady.    How  easy  my  misfortune  is  to  hit! ^ 

Comus.    Imports  their  loss,  beside  the  present  need? 

Lady.    No  less  than  if  I  should  my  brothers  lose. 

Comus.    Were  they  of  manly  prime,  or  youthful  bloom? 

Lady.    As  smooth  as  Hebe's^  their  unrazored  lips.  290 

1  See  note  on  II  Penseroso,  line  134. 

2  ''  Extreme  shift,"  i.e.,  the  last  expedient. 

3  Guess.  4  See  note  on  L'Allegro,  line  29. 


3^  MILTON. 

Comus.    Two  such  I  saw,  what  time  the  labored  ox 
In  his  loose  traces  from  the  furrow  came, 
And  the  swinked  hedger  i  at  his  supper  sat. 
I  saw  them  under  a  green  mantling  vine, 
That  crawls  along  the  side  of  yon  small  hill, 
Plucking  ripe  clusters  from  the  tender  shoots ; 
Their  port  ^  was  more  than  human,  as  they  stood. 
I  took  it  for  a  fairy  vision 
Of  some  gay  creatures  of  the  element,^ 
That  in  the  colors  of  the  rainbow  live,  300  c 

And  play  i'  the  plighted  ^  clouds.     I  was  awe-strook,^ 
And,  as  I  passed,  I  worshiped.     If  those  you  seek, 
It  were  a  journey  like  the  path  to  heaven 
To  help  you  find  them. 

Lady.  Gentle  villager. 

What  readiest  way  would  bring  me  to  that  place? 

Comus.    Due  west  it  rises  from  this  shrubby  point. 

Lady.    To  find  out  that,  good  shepherd,  I  suppose, 
In  such  a  scant  allowance  of  starlight. 
Would  overtask  the  best  land  pilot's  art. 
Without  the  sure  guess  of  well-practiced  feet.  310 

Comus.    I  know  each  lane,  and  every  alley  green, 
Dingle,  or  bushy  dell,  of  this  wild  wood. 
And  every  bosky  bourn  ^  from  side  to  side, 
My  daily  walks  and  ancient  neighborhood ; 
And,  if  your  stray  attendance  "^  be  yet  lodged. 
Or  shroud  ^  within  these  Hmits,  I  shall  know 
Ere  morrow  wake,  or  the  low-roosted  lark 
From  her  thatched  pallet  ^  rouse.     If  otherwise, 

1  "  Swinked  hedger,"  i.e.,  tired  laborer. 

2  Bearing ;  manner.    The  poet  here  pays  a  compliment  to  the  two  sons  of 
the  Earl  of  Bridgewater,  who  were  about  to  come  on  the  stage. 

3  Air.  4  glaited ;  interwoven.  5  Awe-struck. 
6  Shrubby-banked  watercourse.  7  Attendants. 

^  Are  hidden.      See  the  use  of  the  same  word  as  a  noun,  line  147. 
^  The  lark  makes  her  nest  on  the  ground. 


COM  US:   A    MASQUE.  39 

I  can  conduct  you,  Lady,  to  a  low 

But  loyal  cottage,  where  you  may  be  safe  320 

Till  further  quest. 

Lady.  Shepherd,  I  take  thy  word, 

And  trust  thy  honest-offered  courtesy, 
Which  oft  is  sooner  found  in  lowly  sheds. 
With  smoky  rafters,  than  in  tapestry  halls 
And  courts  of  princes,  where  it  first  was  named,i 
And  yet  is  most  pretended.     In  a  place 
Less  warranted  than  this,  or  less  secure, 
I  cannot  be,  that  I  should  fear  to  change  it. — 
Eye  me,  blest  Providence,  and  square  my  trial 
To  my  proportioned  strength!  2 — Shepherd,  lead  on.  330 

\Exeunt. 

Enter  the  Two  Brothers. 

Elder  Brother.    Unmuffle,  ye  faint  stars ;  and  thou,  fair 
moon, 
That  wont'st  to  love  the  traveler's  benison, 
Stoop  thy  pale  visage  through  an  amber  cloud, 
And  disinherit  Chaos  that  reigns  here 
In  double  night  of  darkness  and  of  shades ;  ^ 

Or,  if  your  influence  be  quite  dammed  up 
With  black  usurping  mists,  some  gentle  taper, 
Though  a  rush  candle  from  the  wicker  hole  ^ 
Of  some  clay  habitation,  visit  us 

With  thy  long  leveled  rule  of  streaming  Hght,  340 

An,d  thou  shalt  be  our  star  of  Arcady,* 
Or  Tyrian  Cynosure. 

1  Courtesy  meant  originally  the  manners  of  the  court. 

2  "  Square  my  trial,"  etc.,  i.e.,  adapt  my  trial  to  the  proportions  of  my 
strength. 

3  Wicker-crossed  opening,  or  window. 

4  **  Star  of  Arcady,"  i.e.,  any  star  in  the  constellation  of  the  Great  Bear. 
It  was  so  called  from  Calisto,  daughter  of  a  king  of  Arcadia,  who  was  changed 


40  MILTON. 

Second  Brother.  Or,  if  our  eyes 

Be  barred  that  happiness,  might  we  but  hear 
The  folded  flocks,  penned  in  their  wattled  cotes,^ 
Or  sound  of  pastoral  reed  with  oaten  stops,^ 
Or  whistle  from  the  lodge,  or  village  cock 
Count  the  night  watches  to  his  feathery  dames, 
*Twould  be  some  solace  yet,  some  little  cheering. 
In  this  close  dungeon  of  innumerous  ^  boughs. 
But,  oh,  that  hapless  virgin,  our  lost  sister!  350 

Where  may  she  wander  now,  whither  betake  her 
From  the  chill  dew,  amongst  rude  burs  and  thistles? 
Perhaps  some  cold  bank  is  her  bolster  now. 
Or  'gainst  the  rugged  bark  of  some  broad  elm 
Leans  her  unpillowed  head,  fraught  with  sad  fears. 
What  if  in  wild  amazement  and  affright. 
Or,  while  we  speak,  within  the  direful  grasp 
Of  savage  hunger,  or  of  savage  heat! 

Elder  Brother.    Peace,  brother  :  be  not  over- exquisite  ^ 
To  cast  the  fashion  ^  of  uncertain  evils ;  360 

For,  grant  they  be  so,  while  they  rest  unknown. 
What  need  a  man  forestall  his  date  of  grief. 
And  run  to  meet  what  he  would  most  avoid? 
Qr,  if  they  be  but  false  alarms  of  fear, 
How  bitter  is  such  self-delusion! 
I  do  not  think  my  sister  so  to  seek,^ 
Or  so  unprincipled  in  virtue's  book. 
And  the  sweet  peace  that  goodness  bosoms  ever. 

Into  that  constellation.     The  Greek  sailors  steered  their  vessels  by  a  star  ot 
Arcady ;  the  Phoenicians,  by  the  Cynosura.     See  note  on  L'Allegro,  line  80. 

1  **  Wattled  cotes,"  i.e.,  cots  or  sheltering  places  made  of  wattled  withes, 
or  twigs. 

2  The  stops  are  the  holes  in  an  oaten  pipe,  or  reed,  used  as  a  musical  in- 
strument. 

3  Innumerable.  *  Overanxious,  or  inquisitive. 
^  *'  To  cast  the  fashion,"  i.e.,  to  predict  the  nature. 

^  *'  So  to  seek,"  i.e.,  so  ignorant  what  to  do. 


COM  US:   A   MASQUE.  44 

As  that  the  single  want  of  light  and  noise 

(Not  being  in  danger,  as  I  trust  she  is  not)  370 

Could  stir  the  constant  mood  of  her  calm  thoughts, 

And  put  them  into  misbecoming  plight. 

Virtue  could  see  to  do  what  Virtue  would 

By  her  own  radiant  light,  though  sun  and  moon 

Were  in  the  flat  sea  sunk.^     And  Wisdom's  self 

Oft  seeks  ^  to  sweet  retired  solitude, 

Where,  with  her  best  nurse.  Contemplation, 

She  plumes  her  feathers,  and  lets  grow  her  wings. 

That,  in  the  various  bustle  of  resort. 

Were  all  to-ruffled, -and  sometimes  impaired.  380 

He  that  has  light  within  his  own  clear  breast. 

May  sit  i'  the  center,^  and  enjoy  bright  day : 

But  he  that  hides  a  dark  soul  and  foul  thoughts 

Benighted  walks  under  the  midday  sun ; 

Himself  is  his  own  dungeon. 

Second  Brother.  'Tis  most  true 

That  musing  Meditation  most  affects 
The  pensive  secrecy  of  desert  cell. 
Far  from  the  cheerful  haunt  of  men  and  herds. 
And  sits  as  safe  as  in  a  senate  house ; 
For  who  would  rob  a  hermit  of  his  weeds,  390 

His  few  books,  or  his  beads,  or  maple  dish. 
Or  do  his  gray  hairs  any  violence? 
But  Beauty,  Uke  the  fair  Hesperian  tree^ 
Laden  with  blooming  gold,  had  need  the  guard 
Of  dragon  watch  with  unenchanted  eye 
To  save  her  blossoms,  and  defend  her  fruit, 
From  the  rash  hand  of  bold  Incontinence. 

1  *'  Virtue  could, "  etc.    Spenser  says  : ' '  Virtue  gives  herselfe  light,  through 
darknesse  for  to  wade." — Faerie  Queene,  Book  I.,  line  i. 

2  Resorts.  3  in  the  center  of  the  earth,  or  utter  darkness. 

*  The  tree  which  was  under  the  guardianship  of  the  Hesperides,  and  which 
bore  golden  apples.      It  was  watched  by  a  dragon. 


42  MILTON, 

You  may  as  well  spread  out  the  unsunned  heaps 

Of  miser's  treasure  by  an  outlaw's  den, 

And  tell  me  it  is  safe,  as  bid  me  hope  400 

Danger  will  wink  on  Opportunity, 

And  let  a  single  helpless  maiden  pass 

Uninjured  in  this  wild  surrounding  waste. 

Of  night  or  loneliness  it  recks  me  not  ;i 

I  fear  the  dread  events  that  dog  ^  them  both, 

Lest  some  ill-greeting  touch  attempt  the  person 

Of  our  unowned  ^  sister. 

Elder  Brother.  I  do  not,  brother, 

Infer  as  if  I  thought  my  sister's  state 
Secure  without  all  doubt  or  controversy ; 
Yet,  where  an  equal  poise  of  hope  and  fear  410 

Does  arbitrate  the  event,  my  nature  is 
That  I  inchne  to  hope  rather  than  fear. 
And  gladly  banish  squint  ^  suspicion. 
My  sister  is  not  so  defenseless  left 
As  you  imagine ;  she  has  a  hidden  strength. 
Which  you  remember  not. 

Second  Brother.  What  hidden  strength, 

Unless  the  strength  of  Heaven,  if  you  mean  that? 

Elder  Brother.    I   mean    that   too,   but   yet  a  hidden 
strength. 
Which,  if  Heaven  gave  it,  may  be  termed  her  own. 
'Tis  chastity,  my  brother,  chastity:  420 

She  that  has  that  is  clad  in  complete  steel, 
And,  like  a  quivered  nymph  ^  with  arrows  keen, 
May  trace  huge  forests,  and  unharbored  heaths, 
Infamous  hills,  and  sandy  perilous  wilds ; 
Where,  through  the  sacred  rays  of  chastity, 

1  *'  It  recks,"  etc.,  i.e.,  I  take  no  account. 

2  Pursue.  3  Unprotected.  ■*  Looking  askance  or  sideways. 

5  A  reference  to  one  of  the  nymphs  or  companions  of  the  chaste  goddess 
Diana.     See  note  on  h'ne  441. 


COM  US:   A    MASQUE.  43 

No  savage  fierce,  bandit,  or  mountaineer, 

Will  dare  to  soil  her  virgin  purity. 

Yea,  there  where  very  desolation  dwells, 

By  grots  and  caverns  shagged  with  horrid  shades. 

She  may  pass  on  with  unblenched  ^  majesty,  430 

Be  it  not  done  in  pride,  or  in  presumption. 

Some  say  no  evil  thing  that  walks  by  night, 

In  fog  or  fire,  by  lake  or  moorish  fen. 

Blue  meager  hag,  or  stubborn  unlaid  ghost 

That  breaks  his  magic  chains  at  curfew  ^  time. 

No  goblin  or  swart  faery  ^  of  the  mine. 

Hath  hurtful  power  o'er  true  virginity. 

Do  ye  beheve  me  yet,  or  shall  I  call 

Antiquity  from  the  old  schools  of  Greece 

To  testify  the  arms  of  chastity?  440 

Hence  had  the  huntress  Dian  ^  her  dread  bow, 

Fair  silver-shafted  queen,  forever  chaste. 

Wherewith  she  tamed  the  brinded  ^  lioness 

And  spotted  mountain  pard,  but  set  at  naught 

The  frivolous  bolt  of  Cupid  ;6  gods  and  men 

Feared  her  stern  frown,  and  she  was  queen  o'  the  woods. 

What  was  that  snaky-headed  Gorgon  shield  ^ 

1  Fearless. 

2  See  note  on  II  Penseroso,  line  74.  There  was  a  popular  superstition  that 
certain  evil  spirits  were  always  abroad  from  curfew  time  till  the  crowing  of 
the  cock  at  dawn. 

•^  **  Swart  faery,"  i.e.,  black  fairy,  or  elf,  such  as,  according  to  ancient 
superstition,  dwelt  in  mines. 

*  *'  Diana  (Cynthia)  was  not  only  goddess  of  the  moon,  but  also  of  the 
chase.  In  works  of  art  she  is  represented  as  a  beautiful  maiden,  clad  in  a  short 
hunting  dress,  and  with  a  crescent  on  her  well-poised  head."     (Guerber.) 

5  Brindled;  streaked, 

6  Cupid,  son  of  Venus  and  Mars,  was  god  of  love.  The  bolts  or  darts 
which  he  shot  from  his  bow  had  the  power  of  exciting  love  in  the  heart  of 
any  one  whom  they  pierced. 

'^  The  three  Gorgons  were  hideous  monsters  whose  faces  were  so  fearful 
that  whoever  looked  on  them  became  **  congealed  stone."     One  of  these 


44  MILTON, 

That  wise  Minerva  wore,  unconquered  virgin, 

Wherewith  she  freezed  her  foes  to  congealed  stone, 

But  rigid  looks  of  chaste  austerity,  450 

And  noble  grace  that  dashed  brute  violence 

With  sudden  adoration  and  blank  awe  ? 

So  dear  to  Heaven  is  saintly  chastity 

That,  when  a  soul  is  found  sincerely  so, 

A  thousand  liveried  angels  lackey  her, 

Driving  far  off  each  thing  of  sin  and  guilt, 

And  in  clear  dream  and  solemn  vision 

Tell  her  of  things  that  no  gross  ear  can  hear ; 

Till  oft  ^  converse  with  heavenly  habitants 

Begin  to  cast  a  beam  on  the  outward  shape,  460 

The  unpolluted  temple  of  the  mind, 

And  turns  it  by  degrees  to  the  soul's  essence, 

Till  all  be  made  immortal.     But,  when  lust, 

By  unchaste  looks,  loose  gestures,  and  foul  talk, 

But  most  by  lewd  and  lavish  act  of  sin. 

Lets  in  defilement  to  the  inward  parts. 

The  soul  grows  clotted  by  contagion, 

Imbodies,  and  imbrutes,^  till  she  quite  lose 

The  divine  property  of  her  first  being. 

Such  are  those  thick  and  gloomy  shadows  damp  470 

Oft  seen  in  charnel  vaults  and  sepulchers, 

Lingering  and  sitting  by  a  new-made  grave. 

As  loath  to  leave  the  body  that  it  loved. 

And  linked  itself  by  carnal  sensualty 

To  a  degenerate  and  degraded  state.^ 

creatures,  Medusa,  was  slain  by  Perseus,  and  her  head  was  presented  to 
Minerva,  who  placed  it  in  her  shield,  where  the  face  continued  to  retain  its 
petrifying  power. 

1  Frequent. 

2  **  Imbodies,  and  imbrutes,"  i.e.,  becomes  carnal  and  brutal. 

3  Milton  has  here  adapted  a  well-known  passage  from  Plato's  Phaedo,  in 
which  Socrates  is  speaking  of  souls  that  have  given  themselves  up  to  corporeal 


COM  US:   A    MASQUE.  45 

Second  Brother,     How  charming  is  divine  philosophy! 
Not  harsh  and  crabbed,  as  dull  fools  suppose, 
But  musical  as  is  Apollo's  lute,i 
And  a  perpetual  feast  of  nectared  sweets, 
Where  no  crude  surfeit  ^  reigns. 

Elder  Brother.  List!  list!  I  hear     480 

Some  far-off  hallo  break  the  silent  air. 

Second  Brother.    Methought  so  too  ;  what  should  it  be  ? 

Elder  Brother.  For  certain, 

Either  some  one,  Hke  us,  night  foundered  here ; 
Or  else  some  neighbor  woodman ;  or,  at  worst. 
Some  roving  robber  calling  to  his  fellows. 

Second   Brother.     Heaven    keep    my    sister!      Again, 
again,  and  near! 
Best  draw,  and  stand  upon  our  guard. 

Elder  Brother.  I'll  hallo. 

If  he  be  friendly,  he  comes  well :  if  not, 
Defense  is  a  good  cause,  and  Heaven  be  for  us! 

Enter  the  Attendant  Spirit,  habited  like  a  shepherd. 

That  hallo  I  should  know.     What  are  you  ?  speak.     490 
Come  not  too  near ;  you  fall  on  iron  stakes  ^  else. 

Spirit.    What  voice  is  that  ?   my  young  lord  ?   speak 

again. 
Second  Brother.    O  brother,  'tis  my  father's  shepherd, 

sure. 
Elder  Brother.    Thyrsis!   whose  artful  strains  have  oft 
delayed 

pleasures.  When  the  body  dies,  these  souls,  he  says,  being  unfit  to  soar  to 
heaven,  are  weighed  down  to  earth,  and  wander  as  visible,  shadowy  phantoms 
amongst  the  tombs. 

1  Apollo  was  the  god  of  song  and  music,  and  was  said  to  have  been  the  in- 
ventor of  the  flute. 

2  *'  Crude  surfeit,"  i.e.,  unhealthful  excess. 

3  "  Fall  on  iron  stakes,"  i.e.,  come  in  contact  with  our  swords. 


46  MILTON. 

The  huddling  brook  ^  to  hear  his  madrigal, 

And  sweetened  every  musk  rose  of  the  dale.  — 

How  camest  thou  here,  good  swain?     Hath  any  ram 

Slipped  from  the  fold,  or  young  kid  lost  his  dam, 

Or  stragghng  wether  the  pent  flock  forsook? 

How  couldst  thou  find  this  dark  sequestered  nook?     500 

Spirit.    O  my  loved  master's  heir,  and  his  next  joy, 
I  came  not  here  on  such  a  trivial  toy 
As  a  strayed  ewe,  or  to  pursue  the  stealth 
Of  pilfering  wolf ;  not  all  the  fleecy  wealth 
That  doth  enrich  these  downs  is  worth  a  thought 
To  this  my  errand,  and  the  care  it  brought. 
But,  oh!  my  virgin  Lady,  where  is  she? 
How  chance  she  is  not  in  your  company? 

Elder  Brother.    To  tell  thee  sadly.  Shepherd,  without 
blame 
Or  our  neglect,  we  lost  her  as  we  came.  510 

Spirit,    Ay  me  unhappy!  then  my  fears  are  true. 

Elder  Brother.    What  fears,  good  Thyrsis?     Prithee  2 
briefly  show. 

Spirit.    I'll  tell  ye.     'Tis  not  vain  or  fabulous 
(Though  so  esteemed  by  shallow  ignorance) 
What  the  sage  poets,  taught  by  the  heavenly  Muse, 
Storied  of  old  in  high  immortal  verse 
Of  dire  Chimeras  ^  and  enchanted  isles. 
And  rifted  rocks  whose  entrance  leads  to  hell ; 
For  such  there  be,  but  unbeHef  is  bHnd. 

1  **  Huddling  brook."  The  waters  are  huddled  together  as  they  delay  to 
listen  to  his  music.  The  poet  is  here  paying  a  compliment  to  Henry  Lawes, 
who  acted  the  part  of  the  Attendant  Spirit  and  had  arranged  the  music  for  the 
masque. 

2  I  pray  thee. 

3  The  chimera  was  a  mythical  monster  having  a  lion's  head,  a  goat's  body, 
and  a  dragon's  tail.  Hence,  a  name  applied  to  any  incongruous  fancy  or 
creature  of  the  imagination. 


COM  US:  A   MASQUE.  47 

Within  the  naveP  of  this  hideous  wood,  520 

Immured  in  cypress  shades,  a  sorcerer  dwells, 
Of  Bacchus  and  of  Circe  born,  great  Comus, 
Deep  skilled  in  all  his  mother's  witcheries, 
And  here  to  every  thirsty  wanderer 
By  sly  enticement  gives  his  baneful  cup, 
With  many  murmurs  2  mixed,  whose  pleasing  poison 
The  visage  quite  transforms  of  him  that  drinks, 
And  the  inglorious  Hkeness  of  a  beast 
Fixes  instead,  unmolding  reason's  mintage 
Charactered  in  the  face.^     This  have  I  learnt  530 

Tending  my  flocks  hard  by  i'  the  hilly  crofts  ^ 
That  brow  this  bottom  glade ;  whence  night  by  night 
He  and  his  monstrous  rout  are  heard  to  howl 
Like  stabled  wolves,  or  tigers  at  their  prey. 
Doing  abhorred  rites  to  Hecate 
In  their  obscured  haunts  of  inmost  bowers. 
Yet  have  they  many  baits  and  guileful  spells 
To  inveigle  and  invite  the  unwary  sense 
Of  them  that  pass  unweeting  ^  by  the  way. 
This  evening  late,  by  then  ^  the  chewing  flocks  540 

Had  ta'en  their  supper  on  the  savory  herb 
Of  knotgrass  dew-besprent,  and  were  in  fold, 
"i\  sat  me  down  to  watch  upon  a  bank 
With  ivy  canopied,  and  interwove 
With  flaunting  honeysuckle,  and  began, 
Wrapt  in  a  pleasing  fit  of  melancholy. 
To  meditate  "^  my  rural  minstrelsy. 
Till  fancy  had  her  fill.     But  ere  a  close 

1  Center.  2  Muttered  incantations. 

3  "  Unmolding,"  etc.,  i.e.,  destroying  the  stamp  of  reason  impressed  in 
the  human  face. 

4  Small,  inclosed  fields.  5  Unwitting;  not  knowing  the  dangers. 

6  "  By  then,"  i.e.,  about  the  time  when. 

7  **  To  meditate,"  i.e.,  to  practice;  to  devote  some  time  to. 


48  MILTON, 

The  wonted  roar  was  up  i  amidst  the  woods, 

And  filled  the  air  with  barbarous  dissonance;  550 

At  which  I  ceased,  and  hstened  them  awhile, 

Till  an  unusual  stop  of  sudden  silence 

Gave  respite  to  the  drowsy  frighted  2  steeds 

That  draw  the  litter  of  close-curtained  Sleep. 

At  last  a  soft  and  solemn-breathing  sound 

Rose  like  a  steam  of  rich  distilled  perfumes. 

And  stole  upon  the  air,  that  even  Silence 

Was  took  ere  she  was  ware,  and  wished  she  might 

Den)^  her  nature,  and  be  never  more. 

Still  to  be  so  displaced.     I  was  all  ear,  560 

And  took  in  strains  that  might  create  a  soul 

Under  the  ribs  of  Death.^     But,  oh!  ere  long 

Too  well  I  did  perceive  it  was  the  voice 

Of  my  most  honored  Lady,  your  dear  sister. 

Amazed  I  stood,  harrowed  with  grief  and  fear ; 

And  "  O  poor  hapless  nightingale,"  thought  I, 

"  How  sweet  thou  sing'st,  how  near  the  deadly  snare! " 

Then  down  the  lawns  I  ran  with  headlong  haste, 

Through  paths  and  turnings  often  trod  by  day. 

Till,  guided  by  mine  ear,  I  found  the  place  570 

Where  that  damned  wizard,  hid  in  sly  disguise 

(For  so  by  certain  signs  I  knew),  had  met 

Already,  ere  my  best  speed  could  prevent. 

The  aidless  innocent  lady,  his  wished  prey ; 

Who  gently  asked  if  he  had  seen  such  two, 

Supposing  him  some  neighbor  villager. 

1  Had  begun. 

2  **  Drowsy  frighted,"  etc.,  i.e.,  the  drowsy  steeds  of  night  that  have 
been  frighted  by  the  barbarous  dissonance  of  Comus  and  his  crew. 

3  **  Even  Silence,"  etc.,  i.e.,  even  Silence  was  so  charmed  by  this  music 
that  she  would  willingly  have  ceased  to  exist  if  she  could  always  be  displaced 
by  it.  I  could  hear  nothing  else,  for  these  strains  were  so  ravishing  that 
they  might  even  have  restored  a  soul  within  a  lifeless  skeleton. 


COMUS:   A    MASQUE,  49 

Longer  I  durst  not  stay,  but  soon  I  guessed 
Ye  were  the  two  she  meant ;  with  that  I  sprung 
Into  swift  flight,  till  I  had  found  you  here ; 
But  further  know  I  not. 

Second  Brother,  O  night  and  shades,  580 

How  are  ye  joined  with  hell  in  triple  knot 
Against  the  unarmed  weakness  of  one  virgin, 
Alone  and  helpless!      Is  this  the  confidence 
You  gave  me,  brother? 

Elder  Brother.  Yes,  and  keep  it  still ; 

Lean  on  it  safely ;  not  a  period  ^ 
Shall  be  unsaid  for  me.     Against  the  threats 
Of  malice  or  of  sorcery,  or  that  power 
Which  erring  men  call  Chance,  this  I  hold  firm  : 
Virtue  may  be  assailed,  but  never  hurt; 
Surprised  by  unjust  force,  but  not  enthralled;  590 

Yea,  even  that  which  Mischief  meant  most  harm 
Shall  in  the  happy  trial  prove  most  glory. 
But  evil  on  itself  shall  back  recoil. 
And  mix  no  more  with  goodness,  when  at  last. 
Gathered  like  scum,  and  settled  to  itself. 
It  shall  be  in  eternal  restless  change 
Self-fed  and  self-consumed.     If  this  fail, 
The  pillared  firmament  is  rottenness. 
And  earth's  base  built  on  stubble.     But  come,  let's  on! 
Against  the  opposing  will  and  arm  of  Heaven  600 

May  never  this  just  sword  be  lifted  up ; 
But,  for  that  damned  magician,  let  him  be  girt 
With  all  the  grisly  legions  that  troop 
*    Under  the  sooty  flag  of  Acheron,^ 

Harpies  ^  and  Hydras,^  or  all  the  monstrous  forms 

1  Sentence. 

2  Acheron  was  one  of  the  rivers  of  the  infernal  regions ;  as  here  used,  it 
means  hell  itself. 

2  Loathsome  winged  monsters.  ^  Huge  water  snakes. 

4 


50  MILTON, 

Twixt  Africa  and  Ind,  I'll  find  him  out, 
And  force  him  to  return  his  purchase  ^  back, 
Or.  drag  him  by  the  curls  to  a  foul  death, 
Cursed  as  his  life. 

Spirit.  Alas!  good  venturous  youth, 

I  love  thy  courage  yet,  and  bold  emprise;  6io 

But  here  thy  sword  can  do  thee  little  stead. 
Far  other  arms  and  other  weapons  must 
Be  those  that  quell  the  might  of  helhsh  charms. 
He  with  his  bare  wand  can  unthread  thy  joints. 
And  crumble  all  thy  sinews. 

Elder  Brother.  Why,  prithee.  Shepherd, 

How  durst  thou  then  thyself  approach  so  near 
As  to  make  this  relation? 

Spirit.  Care  and  utmost  shifts  2 

How  to  secure  the  Lady  from  surprisal 
Brought  to  my  mind  a  certain  shepherd  lad. 
Of  small  regard  to  see  to,^  yet  well  skilled  620 

In  every  virtuous  ^  plant  and  healing  herb 
That  spreads  her  verdant  leaf  to  the  morning  ray. 
He  loved  me  well,  and  oft  would  beg  me  sing ; 
Which  when  I  did,  he  on  the  tender  grass 
Would  sit,  and  hearken  even  to  ecstasy. 
And  in  requital  ope  his  leathern  scrip. 
And  show  me  simples  ^  of  a  thousand  names. 
Telling  their  strange  and  vigorous  faculties. 
Amongst  the  rest  a  small  unsightly  root. 
But  of  divine  effect,  he  culled  me  out.  630 

The  leaf  was  darkish,  and  had  prickles  on  it. 
But  in  another  country,  as  he  said. 
Bore  a  bright  golden  flower,  but  not  in  this  soil : 
Unknown,  and  hke  esteemed,  and  the  dull  swain 

1  "  His  purchase,"  i.e.,  what  he  has  stolen;  his  booty. 

2  See  note  on  line  273.  3  Xo  look  upon. 

*  Medicinal.  5  Simple  medicinal  remedies 


COMUS:   A   MASQUE.  51 

Treads  on  it  daily  with  his  clouted  shoon  ;i 

And  yet  more  med'cinal  is  it  than  that  Moly  2 

That  Hermes  once  to  wise  Ulysses  gave. 

He  called  it  Hsemony,^  and  gave  it  me, 

And  bade  me  keep  it  as  of  sovran  use 

'Gainst  all  enchantments,  mildew  blast,  or  damp,         640 

Or  ghastly  Furies'  apparition. 

I  pursed  it  up,  but  little  reckoning  made, 

Till  now  that  this  extremity  compelled. 

But  now  I  find  it  true ;  for  by  this  means 

I  knew  the  foul  enchanter,  though  disguised. 

Entered  the  very  hme  twigs  of  his  spells,^ 

And  yet  came  off.     If  you  have  this  about  you 

(As  I  will  give  you  when  we  go)  you  may 

Boldly  assault  the  necromancer's  hall ; 

Where  if  he  be,  with  dauntless  hardihood  650 

And  brandished  blade  rush  on  him ;  break  his  glass. 

And  shed  the  luscious  liquor  on  the  ground ; 

But  seize  his  wand.     Though  he  and  his  curst  crew 

Fierce  sign  of  battle  make,  and  menace  high. 

Or,  like  the  sons  of  Vulcan,^  vomit  smoke. 

Yet  will  they  soon  retire,  if  he  but  shrink. 

Elder  Brother.   Thyrsis,  lead  on  apace  ;  I'll  follow  thee ; 
And  some  good  angel  bear  a  shield  before  us! 

1  "  Clouted  shoon,"  i.e.,  patched  or  hobnailed  shoes. 

2  A  fabulous  herb  having  the  power  to  protect  against  the  charms  of  Circe. 
**  It  was  black  at  the  root,  but  the  flower  was  like  to  milk.  Moly  the  gods 
call  it,  but  it  is  hard  for  mortal  men  to  dig ;  howbeit,  with  the  gods  all  things 
are  possible. "     (Odyssey,  303-306.) 

3  A  name  probably  coined  by  Milton  from  Hsemonia  CThessaly),  a  land 
once  famous  for  magic. 

4  **  Very  lime  twigs,"  etc.,  an  allusion  to  the  method  of  catching  birds  by 
means  of  twigs  covered  with  a  sticky  substance. 

5  Vulcan  was  the  god  of  fire.  The  allusion  is  probably  to  Cacus,  a  son 
of  Vulcan,  who,  according  to  Virgil,  vomited  huge  volumes  of  smoke  when 
pursued  by  Hercules. 


52  MILTON, 

The  Scene  changes  to  a  stately  palace ^  set  out  with  all  manner  of  delicionsness : 
soft  music  ^  tables  spread  with  all  dainties.  Com  us  appears  with  his  rabble, 
and  the  Lady  set  in  an  enchanted  chair:  to  whom  he  offers  his  glass  ;  zuhich 
she  puts  by,  and  goes  abouf^  to  rise. 

Comus.    Nay,  Lady,  sit.     If  I  but  wave  this  wand. 
Your  nerves  are  all  chained  up  in  alabaster,  660 

And  you  a  statue,^  or  as  Daphne  ^  was, 
Root  bound,  that  fled  Apollo. 

Lady.  Fool,  do  not  boast. 

Thou  canst  not  touch  the  freedom  of  my  mind 
With  all  thy  charms,  although  this  corporal  rind  ^ 
Thou  hast  immanacled,  while  ^  Heaven  sees  good. 

Comus.    Why  are  you  vexed.  Lady?  why  do  you  frown? 
Here  dwell  no  frowns,  nor  anger ;  from  these  gates 
Sorrow  flies  far.     See,  here  be  all  the  pleasures 
That  fancy  can  beget  on  youthful  thoughts. 
When  the  fresh  blood  grows  lively,  and  returns  670 

Brisk  as  the  April  buds  in  primrose  season. 
And  first  behold  this  cordial  julep  ^  here. 
That  flames  and  dances  in  his  crystal  bounds. 
With  spirits  of  balm  and  fragrant  syrups  mixed. 
Not  that  nepenthes  '^  which  the  wife  of  Thone 
In  Egypt  gave  to  Jove-born  Helena, 
Is  of  such  power  to  stir  up  joy  as  this. 
To  life  so  friendly,  or  so  cool  to  thirst. 
Why  should  you  be  so  cruel  to  yourself. 
And  to  those  dainty  hmbs,  which  Nature  lent  680 

For  gentle  usage  and  soft  delicacy? 

1  "  Goes  about,"  i.e.,  attempts. 

2  "And  you,"  etc.,  i.e.,  as  if*you  were  a  statue. 

3  A  maiden  beloved  by  Apollo.     Being  pursued  by  him,  and  likely  to  be 
overtaken,  she  prayed  for  aid,  and  was  transformed  into  a  laurel  tree. 

4  "  Corporal  rind,"  i.e.,  bodily  protection;  body.  5  So  long  as. 

6  "  Cordial  julep,"  i.e.,  exhilarating  drink.     "  Julep  "  is  from  two  Persian 
words  meaning  "rose"  and  **  water." 

7  A  care-dispelling  drug,  thought  to  have  been  opium. 


COM  US:   A   MASQUE.  53 

But  you  invert  the  covenants  of  her  trust, 

And  harshly  deal,  like  an  ill  borrower, 

With  that  which  you  received  on  other  terms, 

Scorning  the  unexempt  condition 

By  which  all  mortal  frailty  must  subsist, 

Refreshment  after  toil,  ease  after  pain, 

That  have  been  tired  all  day  without  repast, 

And  timely  rest  have  wanted.     But,  fair  virgin, 

This  will  restore  all  soon. 

Lady.  'Twill  not,  false  traitor!      690 

'Twill  not  restore  the  truth  and  honesty 
That  thou  hast  banished  from  thy  tongue  with  hes. 
Was  this  the  cottage  and  the  safe  abode 
Thou  told'st  me  of  ?     What  grim  aspects  are  these. 
These  oughly-headed ^  monsters?     Mercy  guard  me! 
Hence  with  thy  brewed  enchantments,  foul  deceiver! 
Hast  thou  betrayed  my  credulous  innocence 
With  vizored  2  falsehood  and  base  forgery? 
And  would'st  thou  seek  again  to  trap  me  here 
With  liquorish 3  baits,  fit  to  insnare  a  brute?  700 

Were  it  a  draft  for  Juno  when  she  banquets, 
I  would  not  taste  thy  treasonous  offer.     None 
But  such  as  are  good  men  can  give  good  things ; 
And  that  which  is  not  good  is  not  delicious 
To  a  well-governed  and  wise  appetite. 

Comus.    O  foohshness  of  men!  that  lend  their  ears 
To  those  budge  ^  doctors  of  the  Stoic  ^  fur,. 

1  Ugly-headed.  2  Masked. 

3  From  a  German  word  meaning  to  '  *  lick  the  lips  ; "  hence,  dainty,  delicious. 

4  A  kind  of  fur,  or  lamb's  wool,  formerly  used  for  trimming  scholastic 
habits.  The  word  is  sometimes  used  in  the  sense  of  "  big,"  and  may  also 
mean  "  surly." 

^  The  Stoics  were  Greek  philosophers  who  taught  that  men  should  repress 
all  exhibition  of  passion  and  should  submit  to  unavoidable  necessity  without 
complaining. 


54  MILTON. 

And  fetch  their  precepts  from  the  Cynic  ^  tub, 

Praising  the  lean  and  sallow  Abstinence! 

Wherefore  did  Nature  pour  her  bounties  forth  710 

With  such  a  full  and  unwithdrawing  hand, 

Covering  the  earth  with  odors,  fruits,  and  flocks, 

Thronging  the  seas  with  spawn  innumerable, 

But  all  to  please  and  sate  the  curious  taste? 

And  set  to  work  millions  of  spinning  worms. 

That  in  their  green  shops  weave  the  smooth-haired  silk, 

To  deck  her  sons ;  and,  that  no  corner  might 

Be  vacant  of  her  plenty,  in  her  own  loins 

She  hutched  ^  the  all-worshiped  ore  and  precious  gems, 

To  store  her  children  with.     If  all  the  world  720 

Should,  in  a  pet  of  temperance,  feed  on  pulse. 

Drink  the  clear  stream,  and  nothing  wear  but  frieze,^ 

The  All-giver  would  be  unthanked,  would  be  unpraised. 

Not  half  his  riches  known,  and  yet  despised ; 

And  we  should  serve  him  as  a  grudging  master, 

As  a  penurious  niggard  of  his  wealth. 

And  live  hke  Nature's  bastards,  not  her  sons. 

Who  would  be  quite  surcharged  with  her  own  weight, 

And  strangled  with  her  waste  fertility : 

The  earth   cumbered,  and  the  winged   air  darked  with 

plumes,  730 

The  herds  would  overmultitude  their  lords ; 
The    sea    o'erfraught^   would    swell,   and    the    unsought 

diamonds 
Would  so  emblaze  the  forehead  of  the  deep. 
And  so  bestud  with  stars,  that  they  below 
Would  grow  inured  to  light,  and  come  at  last 
To  gaze  upon  the  sun  with  shameless  brows. 

1  The  Cynics  were  Greek  philosophers  noted  for  the  austerity  of  their  lives. 
Diogenes,  the  most  distinguished  member  of  the  sect,  lived  in  a  tub. 

2  Laid  up,  as  in  a  box.  3  Coarse  woolen  cloth. 
*  Overloaded;  overfilled. 


COM  US:   A    MASQUE,  55 

List,  Lady ;  be  not  coy,  and  be  not  cozened 
With  that  same  vaunted  name,  Virginity. 
Beauty  is  Nature's  coin ;  must  not  be  hoarded, 
But  must  be  current ;  and  the  good  thereof  740 

Consists  in  mutual  and  partaken  bliss, 
Unsavory  in  the  enjoyment  of  itself. 
If  you  let  slip  time,  like  a  neglected  rose 
It  withers  on  the  stalk  with  languished  head. 
Beauty  is  Nature's  brag,^  and  must  be  shown 
In  courts,  at  feasts,  and  high  solemnities, 
Where  most  may  wonder  at  the  workmanship. 
It  is  for  homely  features  to  keep  home ; 
They  had  their  name  thence :  coarse  complexions 
And  cheeks  of  sorry  grain  will  serve  to  ply  750 

The  sampler,  and  to  tease  the  huswife's  wool. 
What  need  of  vermeil-tinctured  2  lip  for  that, 
Love-darting  eyes,  or  tresses  like  the  morn? 
There  was  another  meaning  in  these  gifts ; 
Think  what,  and  be  advised ;  you  are  but  young  yet. 
Lady.    I  had  not  thought  to  have  unlocked  my  lips 
In  this  unhallowed  air,  but  that  this  juggler 
Would  think  to  charm  my  judgment,  as  mine  eyes, 
Obtruding  false  rules  pranked  in  reason's  garb. 
I  hate  when  Vice  can  bolt  her  arguments  ^  760 

And  Virtue  has  no  tongue  to  check  her  pride. 
Impostor!  do  not  charge  most  innocent  Nature, 
As  if  she  would  her  children  should  be  riotous 
With  her  abundance.     She,  good  cateress, 
Means  her  provision  only  to  the  good, 
That  live  according  to  her  sober  laws, 
And  holy  dictate  of  spare  Temperance, 
If  every  just  man  that  now  pines  with  want^ 

1  Boast.  '  2  Vermilion-colored. 

3  "  Bolt  her  arguments,"  i.e.,  set  them  forth  with  fine  discrimination. 


56  MILTON, 

Had  but  a  moderate  and  beseeming  share 

Of  that  which  lewdly-pampered  Luxury  770 

Now  heaps  upon  some  few  with  vast  excess, 

Nature's  full  blessings  would  be  well  dispensed 

In  unsuperfluous  even  proportion, 

And  she  no  whit  encumbered  with  her  store ; 

And  then  the  Giver  would  be  better  thanked, 

His  praise  due  paid :  for  swinish  gluttony 

Ne'er  looks  to  Heaven  amidst  his  gorgeous  feast. 

But  with  besotted  base  ingratitude 

Crams,  and  blasphemes  his  Feeder.     Shall  I  go  on? 

Or  have  I  said  enow?  ^     To  him  that  dares  780 

Arm  his  profane  tongue  with  contemptuous  words 

Against  the  sun  clad  power  of  chastity, 

Fain  would  I  something  say;  — yet  to  what  end? 

Thou  hast  nor  ear,  nor  soul,  to  apprehend 

The  sublime  notion  and  high  mystery 

That  must  be  uttered  to  unfold  the  sage 

And  serious  doctrine  of  virginity ; 

And  thou  art  worthy  that  thou  shouldst  not  know 

More  happiness  than  this  thy  present  lot. 

Enjoy  your  dear  wit,  and  gay  rhetoric,  790 

That  hath  so  well  been  taught  her  dazzhng  fence; 2 

Thou  art  not  fit  to  hear  thyself  convinced. 

Yet,  should  I  try,  the  uncontrolled  worth 

Of  this  pure  cause  would  kindle  my  rapt  spirits 

To  such  a  flame  of  sacred  vehemence 

That  dumb  things  would  be  moved  to  sympathize,  ' 

And  the  brute  ^  Earth  would  lend  her  nerves,  and  shake, 

Till  all  thy  magic  structures,  reared  so  high, 

Were  shattered  into  heaps  o'er  thy  false  head. 

Comus.    She  fables  not.     I  feel  that  I  do  fear  800 

Her  words  set  off  by  some  superior  power ; 

I  Enough.  2  Defense;  swordplay.  3  Senseless, 


COM  US:   A    MASQUE,  57 

And,  though  not  mortal,  yet  a  cold  shuddering  dew 

Dips  me  all  o'er,  as  when  the  wrath  of  Jove 

Speaks  thunder  and  the  chains  of  Erebus  i 

To  some  of  Saturn's  crew.     I  must  dissemble, 

And  try  her  yet  more  strongly.—  Come,  no  more! 

This  is  mere  moral  babble,  and  direct 

Against  the  canon  laws  of  our  foundation.^ 

I  must  not  suffer  this ;  yet  'tis  but  the  lees 

And  settlings  of  a  melancholy  blood.  8io 

But  this  will  cure  all  straight  \^  one  sip  of  this 

Will  bathe  the  drooping  spirits  in  delight 

Beyond  the  bhss  of  dreams.     Be  wise,  and  taste. 


The  Brothers  rush  in  with  swords  drawtty  wrest  his  glass  out  of  his  handy 
and  break  it  against  the  ground :  his  rout  make  sign  of  resistance^  but  are 
all  driven  in.      The  Attendant  Spirit  comes  in. 

Spirit.    What!  have  you  let  the  false  enchanter  scape? 
Oh,  ye  mistook ;  ye  should  have  snatched  his  wand, 
And  bound  him  fast.     Without  his  rod  reversed, 
And  backward  mutters  of  dissevering  power, 
We  cannot  free  the  Lady  that  sits  here 
In  stony  fetters  fixed  and  motionless. 
Yet  stay:  be  not  disturbed;   now  I  bethink  me,  820 

Some  other  means  I  have  which  may  be  used. 
Which  once  of  Mehboeus  *  old  I  learnt, 
The  soothest  ^  shepherd  that  e'er  piped  on  plains. ' 

1  A  name  applied  to  the  dark  and  gloomy  space  under  the  earth  through 
which  the  souls  of  the  dead  were  obliged  to  pass  on  their  way  to  Hades. 
Milton  uses  it  here  for  Tartarus,  the  prison  house  into  which  Jupiter  cast  the 
Titans,  the  adherents  of  his  father  Saturn. 

2  Institution.  3  Straightway;  immediately. 

4  Meliboeus  is  the  name  of  one  of  the  shepherds  in  Virgil's  Eclogues  ;  but 
Milton  here  probably  refers  to  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth,  an  old  English  chron- 
icler, the  first  to  relate  the  story  of  Locrine  and  his  daughter. 

5  Truest. 


58  MILTON. 

There  is  a  gentle  nymph  not  far  from  hence, 
That  with  moist  curb  sways  the  smooth  Severn  stream : 
Sabrina  is  her  name  :  a  virgin  pure ; 
Whilom  she  was  the  daughter  of  Locrine, 
That  had  the  scepter  from  his  father  Brute.^ 
She,  guiltless  damsel,  flying  the  mad  pursuit 
Of  her  enraged  stepdame,  Guendolen,  830 

Commended  her  fair  innocence  to  the  flood 
That  stayed  her  flight  with  his  2  crossflowing  course. 
The  water  nymphs,  that  in  the  bottom  played, 
Held  up  their  pearled  wrists,  and  took  her  in, 
Bearing  her  straight  to  aged  Nereus'  ^  hall ; 
Who,  piteous  of  her  woes,  reared  her  lank  ^  head, 
And  gave  her  to  his  daughters  to  imbathe 
In  nectared  lavers  strewed  with  asphodel,^ 
And  through  the  porch  and  inlet  of  each  sense 
Dropt  in  ambrosial  oils,  till  she  revived,  840 

And  underwent  a  quick  immortal  change. 
Made  Goddess  of  the  river.^     Still  she  retains 
Her  maiden  gentleness,  and  oft  at  eve 
Visits  the  herds  along  the  twiHght  meadows, 
Helping  all  lu-chin  blasts,'^  and  ill-luck  signs 

1  Brute,  or  Brutus,  was  said  to  have  been  a  descendant  of  ^neas,  and  the 
first  king  of  Britain.  It  was  from  him  that  the  island  derived  its  name.  See 
note  on  line  923. 

2  Its. . 

3  The  good  spirit  of  the  sea,  the  father  of  the  Nereids,  or  sea  nymphs. 
*  Languid;  drooping. 

5  "  Nectared  lavers,"  etc.,  i.e.,  baths  into  which  nectar  had  been  poured 
and  where  asphodels  were  growing.  The  asphodel  was  a  flower  found  in 
Elysium. 

6  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth  relates  that  Queen  Guendolen,  jealous  of  Sabrina 
and  her  mother,  Estrildis,  raised  an  army  and  made  war  upon  Locrine. 
Locrine  was  defeated  and  slain,  and  Guendolen,  assuming  the  government, 
commanded  Estrildis  and  Sabrina  to  be  cast  into  the  river,  which  was  ever 
afterwards  called  the  Severn. 

7  "  Helping,"  etc.,  i.e.,  remedying  the  evil  influences  of  bad  fairies,  such 


COMUS:   A   MASQUE,  59 

That  the  shrewd  meddling  elf  delights  to  make, 

Which  she  with  precious  vialed  liquors  heals : 

For  which  the  shepherds,  at  their  festivals, 

Carol  her  goodness  loud  in  rustic  lays, 

And  throw  sweet  garland  wreaths  into  her  stream,       850 

Of  pansies,  pinks,  and  gaudy  daffodils ; 

And,  as  the  old  swain  said,  she  can  unlock 

The  clasping  charm,  and  thaw  the  numbing  spell. 

If  she  be  right  invoked  in  warbled  song ; 

For  maidenhood  she  loves,  and  will  be  swift 

To  aid  a  virgin,  such  as  was  herself. 

In  hard  besetting  need.     This  will  I  try. 

And  add  the  power  of  some  adjuring  verse. 


SONG. 

Sabrina  fair, 

Listen  where  thou  art  sitting  860 

Under  the  glassy,  cool,  translucent  wave, 

In  twisted  braids  of  lilies  knitting 
The  loose  train  of  thy  amber-dropping  hair; 

Listen  for  dear  honor's  sake. 

Goddess  of  the  silver  lake, 
Listen  and  save  ! 


Listen,  and  appear  to  us. 

In  name  of  great  Oceanus,^ 

By  the  earth-shaking  Neptune'* s  mace. 

And  Tethys^^  grave  majestic  pace ;  870 

By  hoary  Nereus''  wrinkled  look, 

And  the  Carpathian  wizard^ s^  hook; 

as  the  blasting  of  corn,  etc.  **  Urchin  "  originally  meant  the  hedgehog,  but 
came  later  to  be  applied  to  goblins,  imps,  and,  finally,  to  small  children. 

1  An  earlier  sea  god  than  Neptune.  2  The  wife  of  Oceanus. 

3  Proteus,  the  shepherd  of  the  sea,  who  had  the  care  of  Neptune's  flocks 
of  seals. 


6o  MILTON, 

By  scaly  Triton's  i  winding  shell, 

And  old  soothsaying  Glaucus*  ^  spell; 

By  Leucothea^s  ^  lovely  hands, 

And  her  son  that  rules  the  strands; 

By  Thetis'*  *  tinsel-slippered  feet. 

And  the  songs  of  Sirens  sweet; 

By  dead  Parthenope^s  ^  dear  tomb, 

And  fair  Ligea^s  ^  golden  comb,  880 

Wherewith  she  sits  on  diamond  rocks 

Sleeking  her  soft  alluring  locks ; 

By  all  the  nymphs  that  nightly  dance 

Upon  thy  streams  with  wily  glance  ; 

Rise,  rise,  and  heave  thy  rosy  head 

From  thy  coral-pave7t  bed, 

And  bridle  i7i  thy  headlong  wave. 

Till  thou  our  summons  answered  have. 

Liste7t  and  save! 


Sabrina  rises,  attended  by  Water  Nymphs^  and  sings. 

By  the  rushy-fringed  bank,  890 

Where  grows  the  willow  and  the  osier  dank. 

My  sliding  chariot  stays. 
Thick  set  with  agate,  and  the  azurn  sheen  "^ 
Ofturkis^  blue,  and  emerald  green, 

That  in  the  channel  strays ; 

1  The  son  of  Neptune.  He  is  represented  with  a  trumpet  made  of  a  wind- 
ing shell,  and  is  sometimes  called  the  herald  of  the  sea. 

2  A  Greek  fisherman  who  obtained  a  place  among  the  sea  gods,  and  had 
the  power  of  prophecy. 

3  Ino,  fleeing  from  her  mad  husband.  King  Athamas,  leaped  into  the  sea 
with  her  young  son  in  her  arms.  The  Nereids  received  them  and  made  them 
sea  deities,  changing  the  name  of  Ino  to  Leucothea,  or  the  *'  white  goddess." 
Her  son  was  Palsemon,  the  guardian  of  harbors. 

4  A  Nereid,  called  "  the  silver-footed,"  the  mother  of  Achilles. 

5  One  of  the  Sirens,  whose  dead  body  was  washed  ashore  on  the  present 
site  of  Naples. 

6  Another  Siren.     The  name  signifies  "  the  shrill  voiced." 

'^  **  Azurn  sheen,"  i.e.,  azured  gleam.  8  Turquoise. 


COM  US:   A    MASQUE.  6 1 

Whilst  from  off  the  waters  fleet 
Thus  I  set  my  prmtless  feet 
O^er  the  cowslips s  velvet  head^ 

That  bends  not  as  I  tread. 
Gentle  swain,  at  thy  request  900 

I  am  here! 

Spirit.    Goddess  dear, 
We  implore  thy  powerful  hand 
To  undo  the  charmed  band 
Of  true  virgin  here  distressed 
Through  the  force  and  through  the  wile 
Of  unblessed  enchanter  vile. 

Sabrina.    Shepherd,  'tis  my  office  best 
To  help  ensnared,  chastity. — 

Brightest  Lady,  look  on  me.  910 

Thus  I  sprinkle  on  thy  breast 
Drops  that  from  my  fountain  pure 
I  have  kept  of  precious  cure ; 
Thrice  upon  thy  finger's  tip, 
Thrice  upon  thy  rubied  lip : 
Next  this  marble  venomed  seat. 
Smeared  with  gums  of  glutinous  heat, 
I  touch  with  chaste  palms  moist  and  cold. 
Now  the  spell  hath  lost  his  hold ; 
And  I  must  haste  ere  morning  hour  920 

To  wait  in  Amphitrite's  1  bower. 

Sabrina  descends,  and  the  Lady  rises  out  of  her  seat. 

Spirit.    Virgin,  daughter  of  Locrine, 
Sprung  of  old  Anchises'  ^  line, 

1  Wife  of  Neptune. 

2  Anchises,  a  Trojan  prince  and  father  of  ^neas,  escaped  from  the  Greeks 
at  the  destruction  of  Troy  by  being  carried  out  of  the  burning  city  on  the  back 
of  his  son.  Brutus,  the  grandfather  of  Sabrina,  was  the  great-grandson  of 
^neas. 


62  MILTON. 

May  thy  brimmed  waves  for  this 

Their  full  tribute  never  miss 

From  a  thousand  petty  rills, 

That  tumble  down  the  snowy  hills : 

Summer  drouth  or  singed  i  air 

Never  scorch  thy  tresses  ^  fair, 

Nor  wet  October's  torrent  flood  930 

Thy  molten  crystal  fill  with  mud ; 

May  thy  billows  roll  ashore 

The  beryl  and  the  golden  ore ; 

May  thy  lofty  head  be  crowned 

With  many  a  tower  and  terrace  round, 

And  here  and  there  thy  banks  upon 

With  groves  of  myrrh  and  cinnamon. 

Come,  Lady ;  while  Heaven  lends  us  grace. 
Let  us  fly  this  cursed  place, 

Lest  the  sorcerer  us  entice  940 

With  some  other  new  device. 
Not  a  waste  ^  or  needless  sound 
Till  we  come  to  holier  ground. 
I  shall  be  your  faithful  guide 
Through  this  gloomy  covert  wide ; 
And  not  many  furlongs  thence 
Is  your  father's  residence. 
Where  this  night  are  met  in  state 
Many  a  friend  to  gratulate 

His  wished  presence,  and  beside  950 

All  the  swains  that  there  abide 
With  jigs  and  rural  dance  resort. 
We  shall  catch  them  at  their  sport, 
And  our  sudden  coming  there 


1  Singeing ;  scorching  hot. 

2  Referring  to  the  foliage  along  the  banks  of  the  Severn. 

3  Useless. 


COMUS:   A   MASQUE,  63 

Will  double  all  their  mirth  and  cheer. 
Come,  let  us  haste ;  the  stars  grow  high, 
But  Night  sits  monarch  yet  in  the  mid  sky. 

The  Scene  changes^  presenting  Ludlow  Town,  and  the  Presidents  Castle ; 
then  come  in  Country  Dancers;  after  them  the  Attendant  Spirit,  with 
the  Two  Brothers  and  the  Lady. 

SONG. 

Spirit.  Back,  shepherds,  back!    Enough  your  play 
Till  next  sunshine  holiday. 

Here  be,  without  duck  or  nod,^  960 

Other  trippings  to  be  trod 
Of  lighter  toes,  and  such  court  guise 
As  Mercury  2  did  first  devise 
With  the  mincing  Dryades  ^ 
On  the  lawns  and  on  the  leas. 

This  second  Song  presents  thein  to  their  Father  and  Mother. 

Noble  Lord  and  Lady  bright, 
L  have  brought  ye  new  delight. 
Here  behold  so  goodly  grown 
Three  fair  branches  of  your  own. 

Heaven  hath  timely  tried  their  youth,  970 

Their  faith,  their  patience,  and  their  truth, 
And  sent  them  here  through  hard  assays^ 
With  a  crown  of  deathless  praise, 
To  triumph  in  victorious  dance 
O^er  sensual  folly  and  intemperance. 

The  dances  ended,  the  Spirit  epiloguizes. 

Spirit.    To  the  ocean  now  I  fly, 
And  those  happy  climes  that  lie 

1  '*  Duck  or  nod,"  forms  of  obeisance  peculiar  to  country  folk,  or  servants. 

2  Mercury  (Hermes),  the  messenger  of  the  gods,  was  the  ideal  of  agility 
and  grace. 

3  Wood  nymphs.  *  Trials. 


64  MILTON. 

Where  day  never  shuts  his  eye, 

Up  in  the  broad  fields  of  the  sky. 

There  I  suck  the  liquid  air,  980 

All  amidst  the  gardens  fair 

Of  HesperuSji  and  his  daughters  three 

That  sing  about  the  golden  tree. 

Along  the  crisped  shades  and  bowers 

Revels  the  spruce  and  jocund  Sprng ; 

The  Graces  2  and  the  rosy-bosomed  Hours  ^ 

Thither  all  their  bounties  bring. 

There  eternal  Summer  dwells. 

And  west  winds  with  musky  wing 

About  the  cedarn  ^  alleys  fling  990 

Nard  and  cassia's  ^  balmy  smells. 

Iris  ^  there  with  humid  bow 

Waters  the  odorous  banks,  that  blow 

Flowers  of  more  mingled  hue 

Than  her  purfled  '^  scarf  can  show, 

And  drenches  with  Elysian  dew 

(List,  mortals,  if  your  ears  be  true) 

Beds  of  hyacinth  and  roses, 

Where  young  Adonis  ^  oft  reposes. 

Waxing  well  of  his  deep  wound,  1000 

In  slumber  soft,  and  on  the  ground 

1  See  note  on  line  393.  "  The  Hesperides  were  daughters  of  Hesperus, 
god  of  the  West."     (Guerber.) 

2  See  note  on  L' Allegro,  line  15. 

3  The  Horae  (the  goddesses  of  the  seasons)  were  three  in  number,  and 
were  the  daughters  of  Jupiter  and  Themis. 

4  Cedar  lined. 

5  **  Nard  and  cassia,"  i.e.,  spikenard  and  aromatic  laurel. 
^  See  note  on  line  83. 

"7  Embroidered. 

8  A  beautiful  youth,  loved  by  Venus,  and  slain  by  a  wild  boar  which  he 
was  hunting.  On  account  of  Venus 's  grief  for  him  the  gods  of  the  lower 
world  allowed  him  to  return  to  the  earth  for  six  months  every  year. 


COM  US:   A   MASQUE.  65 

Sadly  sits  the  Assyrian  queen.  ^ 

But  far  above,  in  spangled  sheen, 

Celestial  Cupid,  her  famed  son,  advanced 

Holds  his  dear  Psyche,^  sweet  entranced 

After  her  wandering  labors  long, 

Till  free  consent  the  gods  among 

Make  her  his  eternal  bride, 

And  from  her  fair  unspotted  side 

Two  blissful  twins  are  to  be  born,  loio 

Youth  and  Joy ;  so  Jove  hath  sworn. 

But  now  my  task  is  smoothly  done : 
I  can  fly,  or  I  can  run 
Quickly  to  the  green  earth's  end. 
Where  the  bowed  welkin  ^  slow  doth  bend, 
And  from  thence  can  soar  as  soon 
To  the  corners  of  the  moon. 
Mortals,  that  would  follow  me, 
Love  Virtue ;  she  alone  is  free. 

She  can  teach  ye  how  to  climb  1020 

Higher  than  the  sphery  chime  ;* 
Or,  if  Virtue  feeble  were. 
Heaven  itself  would  stoop  to  her. 

1  Venus.     She  was  worshiped  in  Assyria  as  Astarte. 

2  Psyche,  the  youngest  of  three  daughters  of  a  king,  was  loved  by  Cupid. 
As  a  punishment  for  distrusting  him  she  was  forced  to  wander  from  place 
to  place  and  to  endure  many  hardships.  Finally,  however,  Cupid  claimed 
her  as  his  "  eternal  bride,"  and  she  was  admitted  with  him  among  the  gods. 

3  '*  Bowed  welkin,"  i.e.,  arched  dome  of  the  sky. 

*  **  Sphery  chime,"  i.e.,  the  music  of  the  spheres  ;  the  starry  choir  referred 
to  in  line  112. 


66  MILTON. 


LYCIDAS. 

In  this  Monody  the  Author  bewails  a  learned  Friend,  unfortunately  drowned 
in  his  passage  from  Chester  on  the  Irish  seas,  1637;  and,  by  occasion, 
foretells  the  ruin  of  our  corrupted  Clergy,  then  in  their  height. 

Yet  once  more,  O  ye  laurels,^  and  once  more, 

Ye  myrtles  brown,  with  ivy  never  sere, 

I  come  to  pluck  your  berries  harsh  and  crude. 

And  with  forced  ^  fingers  rude 

Shatter  your  leaves  before  the  mellowing  year. 

Bitter  constraint  and  sad  occasion  dear 

Compels  me  to  disturb  your  season  due ; 

For  Lycidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  his  prime, 

Young  Lycidas,  and  hath  not  left  his  peer. 

Who  would  not  sing  for  Lycidas?  he  knew  10 

Himself  to  sing,  and  build  the  lofty  rhyme. 

He  must  not  float  upon  his  watery  bier 

Unwept,  and  welter  to  the  parching  wind. 

Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear. 

Begin,  then.  Sisters  g  of  the  sacred  well 
That  from  beneath  the  seat  of  Jove  doth  spring ; 
Begin,  and  somewhat  loudly  sweep  the  string. 
Hence  with  denial  vain  and  coy  excuse : 
So  may  some  gentle  Muse 

1  The  laurel  was  sacred  to  Apollo,  and  has  always  been  associated  with 
poetry.  The  myrtle  was  sacred  to  Venus.  Ivy  was  used  to  deck  the  brows 
of  the  learned,  and  was  sacred  to  Bacchus.  It  has  been  suggested  that  Mil- 
ton, in  naming  these  three  plants,  intends  a  delicate  allusion  to  King's  poetry, 
beauty,  and  learning. 

2  Unwilling. 

3  The  nine  Muses.  See  note  on  II  Penseroso,  line  47.  By  the  ^*  sacred 
well "  the  poet  probably  means  the  Pierian  fountain  at  the  foot  of  Mount 
Olympus,  the  birthplace  of  the  Muses  and  the  '*  seat  of  Jove." 


LYCIDAS.  67 

With  lucky  words  favor  my  destined  urn,i  20 

And  as  he  passes,  turn 

And  bid  fair  peace  be  to  my  sable  shroud !  2 

For  we  were  nursed  upon  the  selfsame  hill, 
Fed  the  same  flock,  by  fountain,  shade,  and  rill ;  ^ 
Together  both,  ere  the  high  lawns  appeared 
Under  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  Morn, 
We  drove  a-field,  and  both  together  heard 
What  time  the  gray  fly  winds  her  sultry  horn,^ 
Battening  ^  our  flocks  with  the  fresh  dews  of  night. 
Oft  till  the  star  that  rose  at  evening  bright  30 

Towards  heaven's  descent  had  sloped  his  westering  wheel. 
Meanwhile  the  rural  ditties  were  not  mute ; 
Tempered  to  the  oaten  flute,^ 

Rough  Satyrs  danced,  and  Fauns  "^  with  cloven  heel 
From  the  glad  sound  would  not  be  absent  long ; 
And  old  Damoetas  ^  loved  to  hear  our  song. 

But,  oh!  the  heavy  change,  now  thou  art  gone, 
Now  thou  art  gone  and  never  must  return! 
Thee,  Shepherd,  thee  the  woods  and  desert  caves, 

1  **  My  destined  urn,"  i.e.,  my  approaching  or  inevitable  death.  The 
Romans  deposited  the  ashes  of  their  dead  in  urns. 

2  **  Sable  shroud,"  i.e.,  dark  tomb. 

3  "  For  we  were  nursed,"  etc.  Referring  to  the  fact  of  their  companion- 
ship at  college,  and  the  sameness  of  their  tastes  and  pursuits. 

*  "  Winds,"  etc.,  i.e.,  hums  in  the  noontide  heat. 

5  Feeding;  fattening. 

6  "  Meanwhile,"  etc.  Reference  is  made  to  the  early  poetical  attempts  of 
Milton  and  King.  The  "oaten  flute  "  was  made  of  reeds  or  straws,  and  was 
a  favorite  musical  instrument  among  shepherds ;  hence  it  is  emblematic  of 
pastoral  poetry. 

■^  The  Satyrs  of  Greek  mythology  were  represented  as  of  a  pleasure-loving 
nature,  always  engaged  in  dance  and  song.  The  Roman  Fauns — half  men, 
half  goats — were  of  a  similar  nature.  The  names  here  refer  to  the  college- 
mates  of  King  and  Milton. 

8  A  name  frequently  used  in  pastoral  poetry.  It  is  supposed  to  refer  here 
to  some  *'  well-remembered  Fellow  of  Christ's  College." 


68  MILTON. 

With  wild  thyme  and  the  gadding  vine  o'ergrown,         40 
And  all  their  echoes,  mourn. 
The  willows,  and  the  hazel  copses  green, 
Shall  now  no  more  be  seen 
Fanning  their  joyous  leaves  to  thy  soft  lays. 
'  As  kilHng  as  the  canker  to  the  rose. 
Or  taintworm  to  the  weanling  herds  that  graze, 
Or  frost  to  flowers,  that  their  gay  wardrobe  wear, 
When  first  the  whitethorn  blows ; 
Such,  Lycidas,  thy  loss  to  shepherd's  ear. 

Where  were  ye.  Nymphs,  when  the  remorseless  deep  50 
Closed  o'er  the  head  of  your  loved  Lycidas? 
For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the  steep  ^ 
Where  your  old  bards,  the  famous  Druids,  lie, 
Nor  on  the  shaggy  top  of  Mona  ^  high. 
Nor  yet  where  Deva  ^  spreads  her  wizard  stream. 
Ay  me!   I  fondly  dream 

"  Had  ye  been  there,"  —  for  what  could  that  have  done? 
What  could  the  Muse  ^  herself  that  Orpheus  bore, 
The  Muse  herself,  for  her  enchanting  son. 
Whom  universal  nature  did  lament,  60 

When,  by  the  rout  that  made  the  hideous  roar. 
His  gory  visage  down  the  stream  was  sent, 
Down  the  swift  Hebrus  to  the  Lesbian  shore? 

Alas!  what  boots  it  with  uncessant  care 
To  tend  the  homely,  slighted,  shepherd's  trade, 

1  "The  steep,"  etc.,  probably  Penmaenmawr  in  Wales,  an  old  Druidic 
burial  place. 

2  The  wooded  heights  of  the  island  of  Anglesey,  the  favorite  haunt  of  the 
Welsh  Druids. 

3  The  river  Dee,  the  ancient  boundary  between  England  and  Wales,  and 
for  that  reason  regarded  with  a  kind  of  superstitious  reverence. 

4  Calliope,  the  mother  of  Orpheus.  The  Thracian  women,  celebrating 
the  orgies  of  Bacchus,  became  enraged  at  Orpheus,  tore  him  in  pieces,  and 
threw  his  remains  into  the  river  Hebrus.  His  head  was  washed  ashore  on 
the  island  of  Lesbos. 


LYCIDAS.  69 

And  strictly  meditate  the  thankless  Muse? 

Were  it  not  better  done,  as  others  use/ 

To  sport  with  Amaryllis  ^  in  the  shade, 

Or  with  the  tangles  of  Neaera's^  hair? 

Fame  is  the  spur  that  the- clear  ^  spirit  doth  raise  70 

(That  last  infirmity  of  noble  mind) 

To  scorn  delights  and  live  laborious  days ; 

But  the  fair  guerdon  when  we  hope  to  find, 

And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze, 

Comes  the  blind  Fury  ^  with  the  abhorred  shears. 

And  slits  the  thin-spun  life.      '*  But  not  the  praise," 

Phoebus  ^  replied,  and  touched  my  trembling  ears : 

"  Fame  is  no  plant  that  grows  on  mortal  soil. 

Nor  in  the  glistering  foil 

Set  off  to  the  world,  nor  in  broad  rumor  hes,^  80 

But  lives  and  spreads  aloft  by  those  pure  eyes 

And  perfect  witness  of  all-judging  Jove ; 

As  he  pronounces  lastly  on  each  deed. 

Of  so  much  fame  in  heaven  expect  thy  meed." 

O  fountain  Arethuse,'^  and  thou  honored  flood. 
Smooth-sliding  Mincius,^  crowned  with  vocal  reeds, 
That  strain  I  heard  was  of  a  higher  mood. 

1  Are  accustomed  to  do. 

2  Amaryllis  and  Neaera  are  names  of  shepherdesses  in  the  Greek  and  Latin 
pastorals. 

3  Noble ;  pure. 

4  It  was  one  of  the  Fates,  Atropos,  and  not  a  Fury,  that  was  said  to  cut 
the  threads  of  life.  In  speaking  of  her  as  blind,  the  poet  means  to  imply 
that  she  knows  no  distinction.  See  Thumann's  picture  of  the  three  Fates  in 
Guerber's  Myths  of  Greece  and  Rome. 

5  Apollo  is  here  referred  to  as  the  god  of  song. 

6  **  Fame  is  no  plant,"  etc.,  i.e.,  fame  is  not  a  product  merely  of  this  life, 
nor  does  it  consist  in  the  superficial  glitter  which  delights  the  world,  nor  in 
the  widespread  notoriety  which  some  men  attain. 

'^  A  fountain  near  Syracuse,  sacred  to  the  nymph  Arethusa;  here  men- 
tioned in  allusion  to  the  Sicilian  poet,  Theocritus,  who  was  born  there. 

^  A  river  in  northern  Italy,  famous  as  flowing  past  the  birthplace  of  Virgil. 


70  MILTON. 

But  now  my  oat  ^  proceeds, 

And  listens  to  the  Herald  of  the  Sea,2 

That  came  in  Neptune's  plea.  90 

He  asked  the  waves,  and  asked  the  felon  winds. 

What  hard  mishap  hath  doomed  this  gentle  swain? 

And  questioned  every  gust  of  rugged  wings 

That  blows  from  off  each  beaked  promontory. 

They  knew  not  of  his  story ; 

And  sage  Hippotades  ^  their  answer  brings, 

That  not  a  blast  was  from  his  dungeon  strayed : 

The  air  was  calm,  and  on  the  level  brine 

Sleek  Panope  ^  with  all  her  sisters  played. 

It  was  that  fatal  and  perfidious  bark,  100 

Built  in  the  eclipse,^  and  rigged  with  curses  dark, 

That  sunk  so  low  that  sacred  head  of  thine. 

Next,  Camus,^  reverend  sire,  went  footing  slow, 
His  mantle  hairy,  and  his  bonnet  sedge,"^ 
Inwrought  with  figures  dim,  and  on  the  edge 
Like  to  that  sanguine  flower  inscribed  with  woe.^ 
"Ah!  who  hath  reft,'*  quoth  he,  "my  dearest  pledge? '' 

1  My  pastoral  muse.     See  note  on  line  'TiZ  above. 

2  Triton,  son  of  Neptune,  comes  forward  in  the  name  of  his  father  to 
make  a  judicial  inquiry  concerning  the  cause  of  the  shipwreck  in  which 
Lycidas  had  perished. 

3  ^olus,  king  of  the  winds  and  son  of  Hippotes. 

*  A  sea  nymph,  one  of  the  daughters  of  Nereus.  See  note  on  Nereus, 
Comus,  line  835. 

5  It  was  a  very  common  superstition  that  eclipses  brought  misfortune  upon 
all  undertakings  that  were  begun  or  completed  during  their  appearance. 

6  The  genius  of  the  river  Cam,  and  of  Cambridge  University. 

'^  *  *  The  *  mantle  hairy '  is  the  hairy  river  weed  that  is  found  floating  on 
the  Cam ;  and  the  *  bonnet '  is  the  sedge  that  grows  in  the  river  and  along  its 
edge."     (Bell.) 

^  **  Sanguine  flower,"  etc.,  referring  to  the  hyacinth.  Hyacinthus  was  a 
youth  beloved  by  Apollo,  and  accidentally  slain  by  him  while  playing  at  quoits. 
From  his  blood  sprang  the  flower  which  bears  his  name,  on  the  leaves  of 
which  are  certain  marks  said  to  resemble  the  Greek  M^ord  AI  (**  alas!"). 


L  vein  AS,  71 

Last  came,  and  last  did  go, 

The  Pilot  1  of  the  Gahlean  Lake ; 

Two  massy  keys  he  bore  of  metals  twain  no 

(The  golden  opes,  the  iron  shuts  amain). 

He  shook  his  mitered  locks,-  and  stern  bespake :  — 

"  How  well  could  I  have  spared  for  thee,  young  swain,^ 

Enow  of  such  as,*  for  their  beUies'  sake. 

Creep,  and  intrude,  and  climb  into  the  fold! 

Of  other  care  they  little  reckoning  make 

Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearers'  feast, 

And  shove  away  the  worthy  bidden  guest. 

Blind  mouths  !  that  scarce  themselves  know  how  to  hold 

A  sheephook,  or  have  learnt  aught  else  the  least  120 

That  to  the  faithful  herdman's  art  belongs! 

What  recks  it  them  ?  ^    What  need  they  ?     They  are  sped ;® 

And,  when  they  Hst,  their  lean  and  flashy  songs 

Grate  on  their  scrannel  '^  pipes  of  wretched  straw ; 

The  hungry  sheep  look  up,  and  are  not  fed, 

But,  swoln  with  wind  and  the  rank  mist  they  draw, 

Rot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread ; 

Besides  what  the  grim  wolf  ^  with  privy  paw 

Daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing  said. 

But  that  two-handed  engine  at  the  door  130 

1  St.  Peter.  In  Christian  art  he  is  always  represented  with  two  keys  in 
his  hands ;  the  one  to  open  the  gates  of  heaven,  the  other,  to  close  them  by 
force.     See  Comus,  line  13. 

2  "  Mitered  locks,"  i.e.,  his  head  crowned  with  a  bishop's  headdress,  or 
miter. 

3  "  For  thee,  young  swain."  Edward  King  had  been  educated  for  the 
Church,  and  was  about  to  be  ordained. 

*  "  Enow  of  such,"  etc.  From  here  to  the  end  of  line  131,  reference  is 
made  to  Archbishop  Laud  and  the  debased  character  of  the  clergy  during  his 
administration.     Laud  had  now  been  archbishop  for  five  years. 

5  "  What  recks  it  them?  "  i.e.,  what  do  they  care? 

6  Provided  for.  '^  Meager ;  thin. 

^  Milton  probably  refers  here  to  the  Roman  Catholiq  Church^ 


72  MILTON, 

Stands  ready  to  smite  once,  an'd  smite  no  more."  ^ 

Return,  Alpheus;^  the  dread  voice  is  past 
That  shrunk  thy  streams ;  return,  SiciUan  Muse,^ 
And  call  the  vales,  and  bid  them  hither  cast 
Their  bells  and  flowerets  of  a  thousand  hues. 
Ye  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  whispers  use 
Of  shades,  and  wanton  winds,  and  gushing  brooks, 
On  whose  fresh  lap  the  swart  star  ^  sparely  looks, 
Throw  hither  all  your  quaint  enameled  eyes. 
That  on  the  green  turf  suck  the  honeyed  showers,       140 
And  purple  all  the  ground  with  vernal  flowers. 
Bring  the  rathe  ^  primrose  that  forsaken  dies. 
The  tufted  crowtoe,  and  pale  jessamine. 
The  white  pink,  and  the  pansy  freaked  with  jet, 
The  glowing  violet. 

The  musk  rose,  and  the  well-attired  woodbine, 
With  cowslips  wan  that  hang  the  pensive  head, 
And  every  flower  that  sad  embroidery  wears ; 
Bid  amaranthus  all  his  ^  beauty  shed. 
And  daffadillies  "^  fill  their  cups  with  tears,  150 

To  strew  the  laureate  hearse  ^  where  Lycid  lies. 
For  so,  to  interpose  a  little  ease, 

1  "  But  that  two-handed  engine,"  etc.,  i.e.,  but  the  instrument  of  retribu- 
tion is  ready,  and  will  soon  bring  swift  and  complete  punishment  upon  the 
corrupted  clergy.  See  the  latter  part  of  the  argument,  or  note,  immediately 
following  the  title  to  this  poem. 

2  The  river  god  who  was  the  lover  of  Arethusa,  and  made  one  with  her  in 
the  fountain  near  Syracuse ;  hence,  like  her,  symbolizing  pastoral  poetry. 

3  The  Muse  of  pastoral  poetry. 

*  Sirius,  the  Dog  Star;  called  swart,  or  swarthy,  on  account  of  its  sup- 
posed influence  upon  vegetation,  being  in  the  ascendency  during  the  hottest 
months  of  the  year. 

5  Early*^  6  Its.     See  note  on  Comus,  line  248. 

7  Daffodils ;  meaning  the  same  as  asphodels,  from  the  Greek  name  of  a 
flower  of  the  lily  family. 

8  "  Laureate  hearse,"  i.e.,  poet's  tomb.     See  Note  i,  p.  66. 


LYCIDAS.  73 

Let  our  frail  thoughts  dally  with  false  surmise, 

Ay  me!  whilst  thee  the  shores  and  sounding  seas 

Wash  far  away,  where'er  thy  bones  are  hurled ; 

Whether  beyond  the  stormy  Hebrides, 

Where  thou  perhaps  under  the  whelming  tide 

Visit'st  the  bottom  of  the  monstrous  world ; 

Or  whether  thou,  to  our  moist  vows  ^  denied, 

Sleep'st  by  the  fable  of  Bellerus^  old,  i6o 

Where  the  great  Vision  "^  of  the  guarded  mount 

Looks  towards  Namancos  and  Bayona's  hold.^ 

Look  homeward,  Angel,^  now,  and  melt  with  ruth : 

And,  O  ye  dolphins,^  waft  the  hapless  youth. 

Weep  no  more,  woeful  shepherds,  weep  no  more. 
For  Lycidas,  your  sorrow,  is  not  dead, 
Sunk  though  he  be  beneath  the  watery  floor. 
So  sinks  the  day-star  '^  in  the  ocean  bed. 
And  yet  anon  repairs  his  drooping  head. 
And  tricks  his  beams,  and  with  new-spangled  ore^       170 
Flames  in  the  forehead  of  the  morning  sky : 
So  Lycidas  sunk  low,  but  mounted  high. 
Through  the  dear  might  of  Him  that  walked  the  waves,^ 
Where,  other  groves  and  other  streams  along. 


1  '^Moist  vows,"  i.e.,  tearful  prayers. 

^  "  Fable  of  Bellerus,"  i.e.,  fabled  Bellerus.  Bellerus  is  the  name  of  a 
Cornish  giant,  so  called  from  Bellerium,  the  ancient  name  of  Land's  End, 
Cornwall. 

3  The  vision  of  St.  Michael,  on  St.  Michael's  Mount,  near  Land's  End. 
The  mountain  is  spoken  of  as  **  guarded,"  in  allusion  to  the  legend  of  the 
archangel's  appearance  on  one  of  its  crags. 

4  Namancos  and  Bayona  were  near  Cape  Finisterre  in  Spain,  and  in  the 
direct  line  of  vision  southwestward  from  Land's  End. 

5  St.  Michael. 

6  The  allusion  is  to  the  story  of  the  musician  Arion,  who,  having  thrown 
himself  into  the  sea  to  escape  from  pirates,  was  taken  up  by  dolphins,  and 
carried  on  their  backs  safe  to  land. 

■^  The  sun.  8  Gold.  9  See  Matt.  xiv.  25. 


74  MTLTON, 

With  nectar  pure  his  oozy  locks  he  laves, 
And  hears  the  unexpressive  ^  nuptial  song,^ 
In  the  blest  kingdoms  meek  of  joy  and  love. 
There  entertain  him  all  the  Saints  above, 
In  solemn  troops,  and  sweet  societies. 
That  sing,  and  singing  in  their  glory  move,  i8o 

.     And  wipe  the  tears  forever  from  his  eyes.^ 
Now,  Lycidas,  the  shepherds  weep  no  more; 
Henceforth  thou  art  the  Genius  ^  of  the  shore, 
In  thy  large  recompense,^  and  shalt  be  good 
To  all  that  wander  in  that  perilous  flood. 

Thus  sang  the  uncouth  swain  to  the  oaks  and  rills, 
While  the  still  morn  went  out  with  sandals  gray : 
He  touched  the  tender  stops  of  various  quills. 
With  eager  thought  warbHng  his  Doric  lay:^ 
And  now  the  sun  had  stretched  out  '^  all  the  hills,         1 90 
And  now  was  dropt  into  the  western  bay. 
At  last  he  rose,  and  twitched  ^  his  mantle  blue  ; 
To-morrow  to  fresh  woods,  and  pastures  new. 

1  Inexpressible. 

2  "  Nuptial  song,"  i.e.,  marriage  hymn.     See  Rev.  xix.  6,  7,  9. 

3  See  Isaiah  xxv.  8,  and  Rev.  vii.  17.  *  Guardian  spirit. 

5  "In  thy  large  recompense,"  i.e.,  as  a  great  recompense  to  thee. 

6  The  ancient  pastoral  poets  wrote  in  the  Doric  dialect.     A  "  Doric  lay,*' 
therefore,  is  a  pastoral  poem  or  song. 

7  '*  Stretched  out,"  i.e.,  lengthened  the  shadows  of. 

8  Drew  closely  about  him. 


J-.   Jc/^u^zr^, 


ECLECTIC  ENGLISH  CLASSICS 


THE 

LIFE  AND  WRITINGS 

OF 

ADDISON 


BY 

LORD  MACAULAY 


NEW  YORK  •  :  •  CINCINNATI   •  :  •   CHICAGO 

AMERICAN   BOOK   COMPANY 


Copyright,  1894,  by 
American  Book  Company, 

MACAULAY  —  ADDISON. 


INTRODUCTION. 


Macaulay,  in  his  "  Essay  upon  Addison,"  has  related  the 
principal  events  in  his  life  with  a  fullness  of  detail  that  makes  it 
unnecessary  to  dwell  upon  them  here,  except  incidentally  and  so 
far  as  they  connect  themselves  with  a  discussion  of  his  writings. 
Written  in  the  maturity  of  his  powers,  and  divested  of  some  of 
the  redundance  attaching  to  his  earlier  style.  Lord  Macaulay 
presents  to  us  a  most  winning  portrait  of  this  great  master  of 
English  prose,  with  a  truthfulness,  a  graphic  power,  and  a  beauty 
of  diction,  such  as,  up  to  the  time  of  its  appearance,  fifty  years 
ago,  did  not  exist  in  the  language.  It  forms  at  once  a  splendid 
tribute  to  Addison's  genius  and  to  his  many  virtues  as  a  man. 

It  is  remarkable,  in  view  of  the  unique  and  distinguished  place 
occupied  by  Addison  among  English  men  of  letters,  that  no. 
complete  and  carefully  annotated  edition  of  his  works  has  yet 
been  made ;  and,  except  for  the  narrative  of  Tickell  prefixed  to 
the  edition  of  1721,  no  account  of  him  was  published  during  his 
lifetime,  or  subsequently,  by  any  of  his  contemporaries. 

If  one  whose  acquaintance  with  English  hterature  was  precise 
as  well  as  extensive,  and  who  was  thereby  qualified  for  judgment, 
were  asked  to  indicate  which,  among  its  eminent  writers,  had 
exerted  the  most  salutary  influence  in  his  generation,  in  reforming 

5 


6  INTRODUCTION, 

and  correcting,  not  only  public  taste,  but  public  morals  as  well, 
he  would  with  little  hesitation,  we  think,  point  to  Joseph  Addison. 

As  a  poet,  Addison's  talents  did  not  fit  him  to  excel ;  and  had 
his  fame  rested  entirely  upon  his  translations  from  the  Latin 
poets,  the  ''  Campaign,"  an  apotheosis  of  Marlborough,  the 
tragedy  of  "  Cato,"  and  his  other  verses,  he  would  have  been 
assigned  a  niche  in  the  British  Temple  of  Fame,  doubtless  in  a  line 
with  Gay,  Tickell,  and  Parnell,  but  certainly  much  below  Pope. 

In  that  kind  of  prose  literature,  however,  which  he  may  be  said 
to  have  created  in  those  charming*  papers  in  the  "Tatler,"  and 
in  the  ''Spectator"  particularly,  —  of  which  nearly  one  half  ema- 
nated from  his  pen, — he  was  unapproachable.  Imitators  by  the 
score  he  has  had, — in  the  "  World,"  to  which  Lord  Chesterfield  and 
Horace  Walpole  contributed,  the  ''Connoisseur,"  the  "Mirror," 
the  "Lounger,"  and  Dr.  Johnson's  sententious  "Rambler;"  but, 
as  Macaulay  said  of  Boswell  in  his  immortal  biography,  Addi- 
son distanced  all  competitors.  "  Eclipse  is  first,  and  all  the  rest 
nowhere." 

No  example  presents  itself  in  our  language,  and  certainly  not 
in  that  of  any  other  nation,  of  writings  of  such  rare  and  precious 
merit,  produced,  as  were  Addison's  essays  in  the  "  Spectator," 
from  day  to  day,  going  to  the  press  from  his  writing  table,  often 
with  the  ink  scarcely  dry  upon  them,  unpremeditated,  as  in  many 
cases  they  must  have  been,  and  with  little  or  no  opportunity 
of  revision. 

Addison,  as  many  other  distinguished  men  have  done,  ripened 
slowly  ;  and  there  is  a  broad  line  of  distinction  between  his  earlier 
prose  works  and  the  papers  in  the  "  Spectator,"  in  which,  later  in 
life,  he  at  last  found  his  inspiration.  It  must  be  regarded  as  a 
misfortune,  that  with  his  powers  of  observation,  and  his  hvely 


INTRODUCTION,  7 

interest  in  what  was  going  on  about  him,  Addison  should,  in  the 
narrative  of  his  travels  in  Italy,  have  given  us  so  few  ghmpses  of 
the  hfe  of  the  Itahan  people,  or  of  the  men  —  the  statesmen  and 
the  scholars — who  were  then  shaping  the  destinies  of  Italy,  or 
enriching  its  Kterature.  As  Macaulay  has  pointed  out,  the  Latin 
writers  with  whom  he  seems  to  have  been  most  familiar,  and  of 
whom  he  is  oftenest  reminded  in  the  presence  of  some  memorable 
scene,  are,  many  of  them,  but  Httle  esteemed  among  us  now.  In 
fact,  while,  undoubtedly,  Latin  composition  was  cultivated  at  the 
universities,  and  an  ease  and  elegance  attained  in  it  at  that  time 
far  more  than  is  common  at  present,  the  acquaintance  of  our 
scholars  with  the  language  and  its  Hterature  is  much  more  exten- 
sive, exact,  and  profound  than  we  have  any  evidence  of  its  being 
then. 

Of  Italian  literature, — that  of  Dante,  Boccaccio,  Petrarch,  Ari- 
osto,  and  others,  —  which  had  exerted  so  powerful  an  influence 
upon  that  of  England  in  the  earlier  period,  from  Chaucer  to  Shake- 
speare, the  writers  of  Queen  Anne's  time  knew  but  httle ;  and 
from  their  study  of  French  literature,  then  more  in  favor  with 
them,  their  style  had  acquired  a  stiffness  and  formality,  from 
which  Addison,  among  the  rest,  was  long  in  emancipating  himself. 

In  order  rightly  to  estimate  our  indebtedness — not  only  in  a 
hterary  sense,  but  also  in  their  influence  on  the  amelioration  of 
manners  and  the  elevation  of  the  tone  of  pubhc  morality  —  to 
these  httle  essays  in  the  ''Spectator,"  which  found  their  way  to 
many  thousand  breakfast  tables  every  week-day  morning,  the 
condition  of  literature  and  of  society  at  the  dawn  of  the  eighteenth 
century  should  be  considered. 

The  nation  had  been  slow  in  recovering  from  that  state  of  in- 
tellectual and  spiritual  torpor  into  which  the  license,  the  ribaldry, 


8  INTRODUCTION. 

and  the  infamous  excesses  of  the  Restoration  of  Charles  II.  had 
plunged  it.  The  cynicism  and  irreverence  of  Charles's  court 
had  blunted  the  moral  sensibiHties  of  the  people,  debauched  the 
pubHc  conscience,  and  destroyed,  apparently,  all  memory  of  that 
chivalrous  feeling,  that  reverence  for  women,  and  those  noble 
ideals  of  Hfe  and  conduct,  which  distinguished  the  men  of  the 
Elizabethan  age  and  those  of  a  later  generation.  Of  the  coarse- 
ness, indecency,  and  profligacy  of  the  people  of  fashion  in  Lon- 
don, at  this  and  a  later  period,  the  works  of  Swift,  the  novels  of 
Defoe,  and  the  graphic  and  terrible  reahsm  of  Hogarth's  paint- 
ings, furnish  abundant  evidence. 

Of  polite  Hterature,  in  any  strict  sense,  such  as  existed  in 
France  and  in  Italy  at  the  time,  there  was  none.  Books  were 
being  multipHed ;  but  they  were  mostly  of  a  controversial  or 
religious  character,  or  translations  from  the  classics,  the  reading 
of  which  was  confined  to  the  few.  Of  reading  for  the  people,  of 
an  entertaining  or  instructive  kind,  there  was  scarcely  any  de- 
serving mention.  The  people  of  London  were  still  crowding  the 
playhouses  to  witness  and  applaud  the  vile  entertainments  pro- 
vided for  them  by  Congreve,  Etherege,  Wycherley,  and  other 
lesser  wits  of  the  town,  and  to  the  production  of  which  the  great 
Dry  den  himself — though  a  moralist  by  profession,  and  a  man  of 
decorous  life  —  did  not  disdain  to  prostitute  his  talents. 

The  ignorance  prevailing  among  the  rural  population,  even  of 
the  better  class,  and  among  the  tradespeople  in  the  provincial 
towns,  would  be  incredible,  if  we  failed  to  consider  the  diffi- 
culties of  communication  between  the  metropolis  and  the  differ- 
ent parts  of  the  kingdom,  and  the  fact  that  no  such  means  of 
diffusing  intelligence  as  is  furnished  by  a  newspaper  press  existed 
in  England  prior  to   1685.     Until  the  reign  of  Wilham  III.  no 


INTRODUCTION,  9 

systematic  effort  was  made  by  the  government  for  the  construc- 
tion of  highways  for  travel  from  London  into  the  provinces. 
People  of  means,  in  town  or  country,  whom  business  or  pleasure 
led  to  take  these  journeys,  were  compelled  to  use  private  convey- 
ances, or  to  depend  upon  the  stagecoaches,  which  crawled 
along  at  a  snail's  pace  over  roads,  where  in  summer  the  luckless 
traveler  was  choked  or  bhnded  with  dust,  and  in  winter  stuck  fast 
in  a  quagmire,  or  was  spilt  into  a  ditch. 

Of  the  London  of  his  day,  Addison,  could  he  visit  it  now, 
would  find  few  traces  in  that  vast  metropolis,  with  its  teeming 
millions  and  the  almost  infinite  variety  of  its  apphances  for  not 
only  the  comforts  of  hfe,  but  for  so  many  of  its  refinements  and 
luxuries.  With  a  population  of  less  than  half  a  milHon  then,  but 
little  provision  was  made  for  the  comfort  or  protection  of  its 
citizens.  Only  a  few  of  its  streets  were  paved,  and  most  of 
them  were  rendered  filthy  by  gutters  on  each  side,  which,  like 
the  Tiber,  in  stormy  weather  ''rose  above  their  banks,"  and  in 
hot  and  dry  weather  became  a  fruitful  source  of  disease.  The 
arrangements  for  lighting  them  were  of  the  most  primitive  kind ; 
thousands  of  little  tin  lamps,  supphed  with  oil  of  inferior  quahty, 
being  fixed  on  posts  in  the  main  thoroughfares,  or  swung  from 
iron  rods  projecting  over  the  street.  The  city  police  consisted 
of  a  number  of  ancient  watchmen,  who  were  sent  out  at  inter- 
vals during  the  night,  armed  with  poles,  rattles,  and  lanterns,  and 
who,  so  far  from  inspiring  a  wholesome  terror  of  the  law  in  evil 
doers,  were,  by  reason  of  their  age  and  infirmities,  made  the 
victims  of  the  thieves  whom  they  encountered  in  their  rounds,  or 
of  the  riotous  Mohawk  or  Macaroni  reeling  homeward  after  a 
late  debauch.  Sedan  chairs  and  hackney  coaches  were  the  only 
vehicles  in  use  for  public  convenience  in  the  streets ;  the  former 


I  o  INTROD  UCriON. 

being  patronized  by  the  people  of  fashion  when  on  their  way 
to  the  court  drawing-rooms,  levees,  theaters,  routs,  and  other 
assembUes  of  the  beau  monde.  In  1685  there  was  no  daily  news- 
paper in  London ;  and,  although  a  number  of  weekly  and  semi- 
weekly  publications  of  a  political  character  had  made  their 
appearance  in  the  interval,  it  was  not  until  1691  that  the  ''Athe- 
nian Gazette,"  a  weekly  journal  of  literature,  in  which  "  all  the 
most  nice  and  curious  questions  proposed  by  the  ingenious " 
would  be  discussed,  was  published.  Defoe's  "  Review,"  issued 
in  1704,  in  penny  weekly  numbers, — in  which,  among  other 
matters,  the  doings  of  a  "  Scandal  Club  "  were  described,  and 
which  may  have  furnished  a  hint  to  Steele, — preceded  the 
"  Tatler  "  by  about  five  years. 

When  the  "Tatler"  was  projected,  the  middle  classes,  engrossed 
in  their  business  or  in  politics,  were  indifferent  to  the  pleasures 
and  advantages  of  literature.  There  was  no  general  system  of 
education,  no  diffusion  of  knowledge,  and  but  few  of  the  refine- 
ments of  our  diversified  social  structure.  The  taste  for  reading 
itself  had  to  be  created,  as  well  as  the  means  of  gratifying  it. 
Addison  announced  in  one  of  the  early  "Spectators"  that  as  Soc- 
rates was  said  to  have  "  brought  philosophy  down  from  heaven 
to  inhabit  among  men,  so  I  shall  be  ambitious  to  have  it  said  of 
me  that  I  have  brought  philosophy  out  of  closets  and  libraries, 
schools  and  colleges,  to  dwell  in  clubs  and  assemblies,  at  tea 
tables  and  in  coffeehouses." 

No  account  of  Addison,  indeed,  could  be  made  complete  with- 
out reference  to  the  coffeehouses  and  the  clubs,  many  of  which 
are  immortalized  in  the  "Tatler"  and  "Spectator,"  and  which 
were  at  that  time  such  important  factors  in  the  life  of  London. 
In  the  first  decade  of  the  last  century,  the  coffeehouses  alone 


INTRODUCTION,  1 1 

numbered  nearly  two  thousand.  These  were  not  merely  places 
of  refreshment,  but  of  public  resort,  in  which  every  class,  profes- 
sion, occupation,  or  political  opinion  was  represented.  There 
were  coffeehouses  for  the  clergy,  others  for  the  wits  and  fine 
gentlemen,  others,  again,  for  the  lawyers,  the  merchants,  the 
^stockjobbers,  and  the  poHticians.  The  club,  though  a  natural 
outgrowth,  to  some  extent,  of  the  coffeehouse,  was  more  ex- 
clusive in  its  character,  corresponding  in  many  respects  to  our 
modern  institution.  The  coffeehouse,  on  the  other  hand,  was 
the  lyceum  of  that  day,  in  the  free  atmosphere  of  which  all 
matters  of  pubhc  concern  were  discussed,  pubhc  opinion  largely 
molded  and  directed,  and  a  spirit  of  inquiry  fostered,  which  led 
the  way  eventually  to  those  brilliant  discoveries  in  science  and 
the  arts  by  which  the  last  years  of  the  century  were  distinguished. 
The  most  famous  of  these  for  a  time  was  Will's,  opened  in 
1660,  owing  its  reputation  to  the  fact  that  it  was  Dryden's 
custom  to  visit  it  ^*  of  an  afternoon,"  where  he  had  his  special 
place  assigned  him,  and  where  callow  bards  crowded  to  get  a 
nod  from  the  great  man,  or  his  favorable  comment  on  some  new 
sonnet  or  epigram.  Addison's  resort  was  Button's,  in  the  im- 
mediate neighborhood  of  Will's,  which  he  has  made  memorable, 
too,  as  the  meeting  place  of  the  Spectator's  Club.  He  evidently 
loved  a  coffeehouse  as  much  as  Dr.  Johnson  did  a  tavern,  and 
it  is  to  this  inclination  we  are  indebted  for  many  of  the  most 
charming  papers  in  the  "Spectator."  There,  surrounded  by  that 
group  of  friends,  —  the  "Httle  senate,"  as  Pope  sneeringly  charac- 
terized it,  — we  can  imagine  the  discourse  of  this  man,  so  silent 
usually,  but  when  with  his  intimates,  as  Mary  Wortley  Montagu 
said,  "the  best  company  in  the  world."  What  would  we  not 
give  had  a  Boswell  been  there  ! 


1 2  INTROD  UCTION. 

It  has  been  the  custom  to  depreciate  Steele*s  merits  as  a  writer 
as  compared  with  Addison,  and  the  relative  value  of  his  share  in 
their  joint  work.  This  test  is  one,  we  think,  too  severe  to  apply, 
not  to  Steele  only,  but  to  any  other  writer  in  this  kind  of  litera- 
ture before  or  since  his  time.  It  must  be  conceded  that  Steele 
has  done  but  little  to  enrich  the  language,  or  to  add  to  the  har-  » 
mony,  the  correctness,  or  the  purity  of  its  diction.  There  are 
many  defects  of  style,  and  errors  of  taste  and  judgment,  discover- 
able in  his  writings  ;  and  it  is  probable,  that,  but  for  his  association 
with  Addison,  they  would  not  have  survived  the  fate  of  many 
other  works  of  this  character.  It  may  be  said,  once  for  all,  that 
style,  in  the  sense  we  use  it  when  speaking  of  Addison  or  Lamb, 
for  instance,  cannot  be  acquired  any  more  than  genius  can. 
"The  style,  it  is  the  man."  When  he  entered  upon  his  labors 
as  an  essayist  in  the  "Tatler,"  Steele  fell  into  the  error,  not  un- 
common among  his  craft,  of  thinking,  that  in  order  the  better  to 
accomplish  his  purpose  of  general  instruction  and  entertainment, 
and  adapt  himself  to  the  comprehension  of  the  people,  he  should 
aim,  to  use  his  own  words,  at  a  certain  "  incorrectness  of  style, 
and  writing  in  an  air  of  common  speech."  That  this  absurd 
resolution,  if  persisted  in,  would  have  proved  fatal  to  his  avowed 
purpose  of  chastising  the  vices  and  follies  of  society,  of  correct- 
ing the  foibles  and  weaknesses  of  mankind,  regulating  the  duties 
and  amenities  of  social  intercourse,  and  cultivating  a  taste  for 
pure  literature,  we  need  not  multiply  words  to  demonstrate.  It 
is  true,  Steele's  influence  as  a  moralist  was  somewhat  impaired 
by  the  gay  and  dissipated  Hfe  he  led ;  and  politics  and  the 
tumults  of  party  strife  left  him  but  little  of  the  leisure  which 
Addison  enjoyed.  At  the  same  time,  he  was  gifted  with  acute 
sensibility  and  a  nature  keenly  alive  and  responsive  to  the  ten- 


INTRODUCTION.  13 

der  emotions ;  and  examples  are  abundant  in  his  writings  to  prove 
th^t  where  his  feehngs  were  enlisted,  or  his  generous  impulses 
aroused,  his  style  assumes  an  energy  and  an  animation  fully 
adequate  to  his  subject.  Almost  alone  among  the  writers  of  his 
day,  Steele  was  a  consistent  champion  of  women ;  and  his  pen 
was  ever  ready  in  defense  of  their  wit,  their  virtue,  and  their 
beauty.  He  did  much,  too,  to  improve  the  theater,  which,  at  the 
beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century,  was  still,  as  it  had  long 
been,  a  nursery  and  hotbed  of  vice.  Not  only  by  means  of  his 
own  productions,  but  by  reason  of  his  strictures  in  the  ''Tatler" 
and  "  Spectator,"  and  his  critical  discernment,  public  attention 
was  directed  to  the  merits  of  Shakespeare's  plays,  which  had  for 
many  years  been  almost  entirely  banished  from  the  stage. 

Nothing  can  be  added  by  an  inferior  pen  to  Macaulay's  portrait 
of  Addison.  His  figure,  from  the  time  when  he  was  wont,  in 
meditative  mood,  to  pace  the  groves  of  Magdalen  College,  in 
what  came  to  be  known  as  "Addison's  Walk,"  to  the  later  years, 
when,  a  silent  spectator  of  men,  he  looked  upon  the  busy  scenes 
about  him  with  an  eye  so  keen  but  so  kindly,  is  the  most  fa- 
mihar,  and  certainly  one  of  the  most  lovable,  of  any  in  the  long 
roll  of  English  men  of  letters.  To  the  people  who  had  at  length 
emerged  from  the  arid  desert  of  the  Restoration,  he  opened  a 
fountain  of  clear,  sweet,  sparkling  water,  from  his  ''  well  of  pure 
English  undefiled,"  with  which  he  invited  them  to  slake  their 
thirst  at  will. 

A  perennial  stream,  it  has  been  flowing  down  with  ever  increas- 
ing volume  from  generation  to  generation  to  our  own  day.  Mod- 
em prose  literature  may,  indeed,  be  said  to  have  begun  with  the 
"  Spectator ; "  the  easy,  graceful,  elastic  movement  of  its  style,  and 
at  the  same  time  its  aptitude,  simplicity,  and  precision,  contrast- 


14  INTRODUCTION, 

ing  strongly  with  the  cumbrous  diction,  the  ''  long  resounding  " 
periods,  and  the  crude  forms  of  expression,  so  common  in  even 
the  best  writers  of  the  seventeenth  century,  and  in  many  of  Queen 
Anne's  time. 

But  that  for  which  Addison,  perhaps,  would  have  preferred, 
before  all  things  else,  to  be  held  in  honor  was,  that  in  all  his  writ- 
ings he  steadily  exerted  his  great  powers  in  promoting  the  social, 
moral,  and  religious  advancement  of  his  race.  Many  of  the  noble 
and  beneficent  measures,  with  this  end  in  view,  by  which  a  part 
of  the  last  century,  and  our  own  particularly,  have  been  distin- 
guished, may  be  traced  directly  to  the  daily,  lay  discourses  of 
this  ''parson  in  a  tye-wig."  Cato's  Httle  senate,  since  its  small 
beginnings  in  Button's  coffeehouse,  has  been  expanding,  until 
now  he  is  loved  and  honored  with  an  affection  "  just  this  side  of 
idolatry,"  in  far-distant  lands,  in  milHons  of  homes,  wherever  the 
English-speaking  race  is  found,  and  in  states  and  commonwealths 
that  were  wildernesses  then,  —  in  this  Western  continent  of  ours, 
and  in  "  the  long  wash  of  Australasian  seas." 


THE  LIFE  AND  WRITINGS  OF  ADDISON.^ 


SOME  reviewers  are  of  opinion  that  a  lady  who  dares  to  pub- 
hsh  a  book  renounces  by  that  act  the  franchises  appertaining 
to  her  sex,  and  can  claim  no  exemption  from  the  utmost  rigor 
of  critical  procedure.  From  that  opinion  we  dissent.  We 
admit,  indeed,  that,  in  a  country  which  boasts  of  many  female 
writers  eminently  qualified  by  their  talents  and  acquirements  to 
influence  the  public  mind,  it  would  be  of  most  pernicious  conse- 
quence that  inaccurate  history  or  unsound  philosophy  should  be 
suffered  to  pass  uncensured,  merely  because  the  offender  chanced 
to  be  a  lady.  But  we  conceive  that,  on  such  occasions,  a  critic 
would  do  well  to  imitate  the  courteous  knight  who  found  him- 
self compelled  by  duty  to  keep  the  hsts  against  Bradamante.^ 
He,  we  are  told,  defended  successfully  the  cause  of  which  he 
was  the  champion,  but,  before  the  fight  began,  exchanged  Bal- 
isarda  ^  for  a  less  deadly  sword,  of  which  he  carefully  blunted 
the  point  and  edge. 

Nor  are  the  immunities  of  sex  the  only  immunities  which  Miss 
Aikin  may  rightfully  plead.  Several  of  her  works,  and  especially 
the  very  pleasing  *'  Memoirs  of  the  Court  of  King  James  I.,"  have 
fully  entitled  her  to  the  privileges  enjoyed  by  good  writers.     One 

1  A  review  of  the  Life  of  Joseph  Addison,  by  Lucy  Aikin,  published  in 
1843. 

2  A  lady  knight-errant  whose  exploits  are  related  in  Ariosto's  Orlando 
Furioso. 

3  A  sword  made  by  a  sorceress,  and  capable  of  cutting  through  the  hardest 
substances.      See  Orlando  Furioso,  Hoole's  translation,  xlv.  523. 

15 


i6  MACAULAY, 

of  those  privileges  we  hold  to  be  this :  that  such  writers,  when, 
either  from  the  unlucky  choice  of  a  subject  or  from  the  indo- 
lence too  often  produced  by  success,  they  happen  to  fail,  shall 
not  be  subjected  to  the  severe  discipline  which  it  is  sometimes 
necessary  to  inflict  upon  dunces  and  impostors,  but  shall  merely 
be  reminded  by  a  gentle  touch,  hke  that  with  which  the  Laputan 
flapper  i  roused  his  dreaming  lord,  that  it  is  high  time  to  wake. 

Our  readers  will  probably  infer  from  what  we  have  said  that 
Miss  Aikin's  book  has  disappointed  us.  The  truth  is,  that  she  is 
not  well  acquainted  with  her  subject.  No  person  who  is  not 
familiar  with  the  political  and  literary  history  of  England  during 
the  reigns  of  William  III.,  of  Anne,  and  of  George  I. ,2  can 
possibly  write  a  good  life  of  Addison.  Now,  we  mean  no 
reproach  to  Miss  Aikin,  and  many  will  think  that  we  pay  her  a 
compliment,  when  we  say  that  her  studies  have  taken  a  different 
direction.  She  is  better  acquainted  with  Shakespeare  and  Ra- 
leigh ^  than  with  Congreve  and  Prior,^  and  is  far  more  at  home 
among  the  ruffs  and  peaked  beards  of  Theobald's  ^  than  among 
the  Steenkirks^  and  flowing  periwigs  which  surrounded  Queen 

1  The  Laputan  flapper  was,  according  to  Swift's  story  of  Gulliver's  Voyage 
to  Laputa,  an  officer  whose  business  it  was  to  attend  his  master  in  his  walks, 
with  a  blown  bladder  attached  to  a  stick,  with  which  he  roused  his  attention 
by  a  gentle  flap,  lest  he  should  fall  over  a  precipice  or  against  a  post,  so  con- 
stantly wrapped  was  he  in  cogitation. 

2  William  III.  and  his  wife  Mary,  the  daughter  of  James  II.,  were  made 
rulers  of  England  on  the  expulsion  of  James,  in  1688.  Queen  Anne  suc- 
ceeded to  the  throne  in  1 702,  and  George  I.  in  1714.  The  entire  period 
covered  by  the  reigns  of  these  monarchs  was  about  forty  years  (1688-1727). 

3  William  Shakespeare  (1564-1616)  and  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  (1552-1618) 
llourished  a  hundred  years  before  the  time  of  Addison. 

*  William  Congreve  (1670-1729),  a  poet  and  dramatist,  and  Matthew 
Prior  ( 1664-172 1 ),  a  poet  and  diplomat,  were  both  contemporaries  of  Addison. 

5  A  country  seat  built  by  Lord  Burleigh,  Queen  Elizabeth's  minister; 
afterwards  a  residence  of  James  I.,  who  died  there. 

6  Loosely  arranged  military  cravats,  worn  by  the  French  noblemen  after 
the  battle  of  Steenkirk,  in  Holland,  in  which  the  allies  under  William  III. 
were  defeated. 


THE  LIFE  AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON.  17 

Anne's  tea  table  at  Hampton.^  She  seems  to  have  written 
about  the  EHzabethan  age,  because  she  had  read  much  about 
it:  she  seems,  on  the  other  hand,  to  have  read  a  httle  about  the 
age  of  Addison,  because  she  had  determined  to  write  about  it. 
The  consequence  is,  that  she  has  had  to  describe  men  and  things 
without  having  either  a  correct  or  a  vivid  idea  of  them,  and  that 
she  has  often  fallen  into  errors  of  a  very  serious  kind.  The  repu- 
tation which  Miss  Aikin  has  justly  earned  stands  so  high,  and 
the  charm  of  Addison's  letters  is  so  great,  that  a  second  edition  of 
this  work  may  probably  be  required.  If  so,  we  hope  that  every 
paragraph  will  be  revised,  and  that  every  date  and  fact  about 
which  there  can  be  the  smallest  doubt  will  be  carefully  verified. 

To  Addison  himself  we  are  bound  by  a  sentiment  as  much  hke 
affection  as  any  sentiment  can  be  which  is  inspired  by  one  who 
has  been  sleeping  a  hundred  and  twenty  years  in  Westminster 
Abbey.2  We  trust,  however,  that  this  feeling  will  not  betray  us 
into  that  abject  idolatry  which  we  have  often  had  occasion  to 
reprehend  in  others,  and  which  seldom  fails  to  make  both  the 
idolater  and  the  idol  ridiculous.  A  man  of  genius  and  virtue  is 
but  a  man.  All  his  powers  cannot  be  equally  developed,  nor 
can  we  expect  from  him  perfect  self-knowledge.  We  need  not, 
therefore,  hesitate  to  admit  that  Addison  has  left  us  some  com- 
positions which  do  not  rise  above  mediocrity,  some  heroic  poems 
hardly  equal  to  Parnell's,^  some  criticism  as  superficial  as  Dr. 
Blair's,^  and  a  tragedy  not  very  much  better  than  Dr.  Johnson's.^ 

1  Hampton  Court,  built  by  Cardinal  Wolsey,  and  the  favorite  residence  of 
many  of  the  English  sovereigns. 

2  The  most  ancient  of  the  cathedrals  of  England,  and  the  mausoleum  of 
many  of  her  illustrious  dead. 

3  Thomas  Parnell  (1679-1 71 7),  one  of  the  minor  poets  of  Queen  Anne's 
reign ;  best  known  by  his  poem,  the  Hermit. 

4  Dr.Hugh  Blair  (1718-1800),  born  at  Edinburgh,  a  distinguished  preach- 
er, and  writer  on  rhetoric  and  belles-lettres. 

5  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson  (1709-84),  a  celebrated  scholar,  writer,  and  lexi- 
cographer. The  comparison  here  made  is  between  Addison's  Cato  and 
Dr.  Johnson's  Irene. 

2 


i8  MACAULAY, 

It  is  praise  enough  to  say  of  a  writer,  that,  in  a  high  department 
of  Hterature  in  which  many  eminent  writers  have  distinguished 
themselves,  he  has  had  no  equal ;  and  this  may  with  strict  justice 
be  said  of  Addison. 

As  a  man  he  may  not  have  deserved  the  adoration  which  he 
received  from  those  who,  bewitched  by  his  fascinating  society, 
and  indebted  for  all  the  comforts  of  life  to  his  generous  and  deli- 
cate friendship,  worshiped  him  nightly  in  his  favorite  temple  at 
Button's.^  But,  after  full  inquiry  and  impartial  reflection,  we 
have  long  been  convinced  that  he  deserved  as  much  love  and 
esteem  as  can  be  justly  claimed  by  any  of  our  infirm  and  erring 
race.  Some  blemishes  may  undoubtedly  be  detected  in  his  char- 
acter ;  but  the  more  carefully  it  is  examined,  the  more  will  it 
appear,  to  use  the  phrase  of  the  old  anatomists,  sound  in  the  noble 
parts,  free  from  all  taint  of  perfidy,  of  cowardice,  of  cruelty,  of 
ingratitude,  of  envy.  Men  may  easily  be  named  in  whom  some 
particular  good  disposition  has  been  more  conspicuous  than  in 
Addison.  But  the  just  harmony  of  qualities,  the  exact  temper 
between  the  stern  and  the  humane  virtues,  the  habitual  observ- 
ance of  every  law,  not  only  of  moral  rectitude,  but  of  moral 
grace  and  dignity,  distinguish  him  from  all  men  who  have  been 
tried  by  equally  strong  temptations,  and  about  whose  conduct 
we  possess  equally  full  information. 

His  father  was  the  Rev.  Lancelot  Addison,  who,  though 
eclipsed  by  his  more  celebrated  son,  made  some  figure  in  the 
world,  and  occupies  with  credit  two  folio  pages  in  the  ''  Bio- 
graphia  Britannica."  Lancelot  was  sent  up,  as  a  poor  scholar, 
from  Westmoreland  to  Queen's  College,"^  Oxford,  in  the  time  of 
the  Conimonwealth,^  made  some  progress  in  learning,  became, 

1  A  noted  coffeehouse  in  London  in  Queen  Anne's  time,  the  resort  of 
Addison  and  his  friends      (see  Introduction). 

2  A  college  founded  in  1340,  and  so  named  from  Philippa,  queen  of 
Edward  III. 

3  The  government  established  by  Cromwell  and  his  associates,  continuing 
from  the  execution  of  Charles  I.  in  1649,  till  the  Restoration  in  1660. 


THE   LIFE   AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON  19 

like  most  of  his  fellow  students,  a  violent  Royalist,  lampooned 
the  heads  of  the  university,  and  was  forced  to  ask  pardon  on 
his  bended  knees.  When  he  had  left  college,  he  earned  a  hum- 
ble subsistence  by  reading  the  hturgy  of  the  fallen  church  to 
the  families  of  those  sturdy  squires  whose  manor  houses  were 
scattered  over  the  Wild  of  Sussex.  After  the  Restoration,  his 
loyalty  was  rewarded  with  the  post  of  chaplain  to  the  garrison 
of  Dunkirk. 2  When  Dunkirk  was  sold  to  France,  he  lost  his 
employment.  But  Tangier^  had  been  ceded  by  Portugal  to 
England  as  a  part  of  the  marriage  portion  of  the  Infanta* 
Catharine  ;  and  to  Tangier,  Lancelot  Addison  was  sent.  A  more 
miserable  situation  can  hardly  be  conceived.  It  was  difficult  to 
say  whether  the  unfortunate  settlers  were  more  tormented  by  the 
heats,  or  by  the  rains ;  by  the  soldiers  within  the  wall,  or  by  the 
Moors  without  it.  One  advantage  the  chaplain  had.  He 
enjoyed  an  excellent  opportunity  of  studying  the  history  and 
manners  of  Jews  and  Mohammedans  ;  and  of  this  opportunity  he 
appears  to  have  made  excellent  use.  On  his  return  to  England, 
after  some  years  of  banishment,  he  published  an  interesting  vol- 
ume on  the  "  Polity  and  Rehgion  of  Barbary,"  and  another  on 
the  "  Hebrew  Customs  and  the  State  of  Rabbinical  Learning."  ^ 
He  rose  to  eminence  in  his  profession,  and  became  one  of  the  royal 
chaplains,  a  doctor  of  divinity.  Archdeacon  of  Sahsbury,  and 
Dean  of  Lichfield.  It  is  said  that  he  would  have  been  made  a 
bishop  after  the  Revolution,  if  he  had  not  given  offense  to  the 
government  by  strenuously  opposing,  in  the  Convention  of  1689, 
the  liberal  policy  of  William  and  Tillotson.^ 

1  Originally  a  forest  or  uncultivated  tract  of  land. 

2  A  seaport  of  France,  on  the  Straits  of  Dover,  taken  by  Oliver  Cromv^^ell 
in  1658,  but  sold  to  Louis  XIV.  by  Charles  II. 

3  A  seaport  of  Morocco,  on  a  small  bay  in  the  Straits  of  Gibraltar.  It  was 
taken  by  the  Portuguese  in  1471. 

*  A  title  given  to  princesses  of  the  blood  royal  of  Spain  and  Portugal,  except 
the  eldest.     ^  Learning  in  the  later  periods  of  the  literary  history  of  the  Jews. 

6  John  Robert  Tillotson  (1630-94),  one  of  the  great  prelates  and  theologians 
of  the  English  Church,  made  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  by  William  211. 


20  MAC  AULA  Y, 

In  1672,  not  long  after  Dr.  Addison's  return  from  Tangier, 
his  son  Joseph  was  born.  Of  Joseph's  childhood  we  know  little. 
He  learned  his  rudiments  at  schools  in  his  father's  neighborhood, 
and  was  then  sent  to  the  Charter  House.^  The  anecdotes  which 
are  popularly  related  about  his  boyish  tricks  do  not  harmonize 
very  well  with  what  we  know  of  his  riper  years.  There  remains 
a  tradition  that  he  was  the  ringleader  in  a  barring-out,^  and 
another  tradition  that  he  ran  away  from  school,  and  hid  himself 
in  a  wood,  where  he  fed  on  berries,  and  slept  in  a  hollow  tree,  till, 
after  a  long  search,  he  was  discovered  and  brought  home.  If 
these  stories  be  true,  it  would  be  curious  to  know  by  what  moral 
discipline  so  mutinous  and  enterprising  a  lad  was  transformed 
into  the  gentlest  and  most  modest  of  men. 

We  have  abundant  proof,  that,  whatever  Joseph's  pranks  may 
have  been,  he  pursued  his  studies  vigorously  and  successfully. 
At  fifteen  he  was  not  only  fit  for  the  university,  but  carried 
thither  a  classical  taste  and  a  stock  of  learning  which  would 
nave  done  honor  to  a  master  of  arts.  He  was  entered  at 
Queen's  College,  Oxford ;  but  he  had  not  been  many  months 
there  when  some  of  his  Latin  verses  fell  by  accident  into  me 
hands  of  Dr.  Lancaster,  Dean  of  Magdalen  College.  The 
young  scholar's  diction  and  versification  were  already  such  as 
veteran  professors  might  envy.  Dr.  Lancaster  was  desirous  to 
serve  a  boy  of  such  promise ;  nor  was  an  opportunity  long  want- 
ing. The  Revolution  ^  had  just  taken  place,  and  nowhere  had  it 
been  hailed  with  more  deHght  than  at  Magdalen  College.  That 
great  and  opulent  corporation  had  been  treated  by  James,  and 
by  his  chancellor,^  with  an  insolence  and  injustice,  which,  even 

1  A  famous  school  for  boys,  in  London,  founded  in  161 1,  and  removed 
since  1872  to  the  village  of  Godalming,  in  Surrey. 

2  An  old  school  custom  of  barring  the  master  out  of  the  schoolroom  in 
order  to  dictate  terms  to  him. 

3  The  Revolution  of  1688,  which  seated  William  and  Mary  on  the  English 
throne. 

4  Chief  Justice  Jeffreys,  to  whom  an  infamous  notoriety  has  attached  from 
his  insolence,  brutality,  and  cruelty. 


THE  LIFE  AND    WRITINGS  OF  ADDISON  21 

in  such  a  prince  and  in  such  a  minister,  may  justly  excite  amaze- 
ment, and  which  had  done  more  than  even  the  prosecution  of 
the  bishops  ^  to  alienate  the  Church  of  England  from  the  throne. 
A  president,  duly  elected,  had  been  violently  expelled  from  his 
dweUing ;  a  Papist  had  been  set  over  the  society  by  a  royal  man- 
date ;  the  fellows  who,  in  conformity  with  their  oaths,  had  re- 
fused to  submit  to  this  usurper,  had  been  driven  forth  from  their 
quiet  cloisters  and  gardens,  to  die  of  want,  or  to  live  on  charity. 
But  the  day  of  redress  and  retribution  speedily  came.  The 
intruders  were  ejected ;  the  venerable  house  was  again  inhabited 
by  its  old  inmates ;  learning  flourished  under  the  rule  of  the  wise 
and  virtuous  Hough  ;^  and  with  learning  was  united  a  mild  and 
liberal  spirit  too  often  wanting  in  the  princely  colleges  of  Oxford. 
In  consequence  of  the  troubles  through  which  the  society  had 
passed,  there  had  been  no  vahd  election  of  new  members  during 
the  year  1688.  In  1689,  therefore,  there  was  twice  the  ordinary 
number  of  vacancies ;  and  thus  Dr.  Lancaster  found  it  easy  to 
procure  for  his  young  friend  admittance  to  the  advantages  of  a 
foundation  then  generally  esteemed  the  wealthiest  in  Europe. 

At  Magdalen,  Addison  resided  during  ten  years.  He  was  at 
first  one  of  those  scholars  who  are  called  *'  Demies,"  but  was  sub- 
sequently elected  a  fellow.  His  college  is  still  proud  of  his  name  ; 
his  portrait  still  hangs  in  the  hall ;  and  strangers  are  still  told 
that  his  favorite  walk  was  under  the  elms  which  fringe  the 
meadow  on  the  banks  of  the  Cherwell.  It  is  said,  and  is  highly 
probable,  that  he  was  distinguished  among  his  fellow  students  by 
the  delicacy  of  his  feelings,  by  the  shyness  of  his  manners,  and 
by  the  assiduity  with  which  he  often  prolonged  his  studies  far 
into  the  night.  It  is  certain  that  his  reputation  for  ability  and 
learning  stood  high.     Many  years  later  the  ancient  doctors  of 

1  The  prosecution  of  the  primate  and  six  of  the  bishops  of  the  English 
Church,  by  James  II.,  in  1687,  for  refusing  to  read  his  declaration  of  indul- 
gence in  the  churches.     They  were  triumphantly  acquitted, 

2  Dr.  John  Hough  (1651-1743),  president  of  Magdalen  College  during 
Addison's  stay  there. 


22  MACAULAY. 

Magdalen  continued  to  talk  in  their  common  room  of  his  boy- 
ish compositions,  and  expressed  their  sorrow  that  no  copy  of 
exercises  so  remarkable  had  been  preserved. 

It  is  proper,  however,  to  remark  that  Miss  Aikin  has  committed 
the  error,  very  pardonable  in  a  lady,  of  overrating  Addison's 
classical  attainments.  In  one  department  of  learning,  indeed, 
his  proficiency  was  such  as  it  is  hardly  possible  to  overrate.  His 
knowledge  of  the  Latin  poets,  from  Lucretius  ^  and  Catullus,^ 
down  to  Claudian  "^  and  Prudentius,^  was  singularly  exact  and 
profound.  He  understood  them  thoroughly,  entered  into  their 
spirit,  and  had  the  finest  and  most  discriminating  perception  of 
all  their  peculiarities  of  style  and  melody ;  nay,  he  copied  their 
manner  with  admirable  skill,  and  surpassed,  we  think,  all  their 
British  imitators  who  had  preceded  him,  Buchanan  ^  and  Milton  ^ 
alone  excepted.  This  is  high  praise ;  and  beyond  this  we  can- 
not with  justice  go.  It  is  clear  that  Addison's  serious  attention 
during  his  residence  at  the  university  was  almost  entirely  con- 
centrated on  Latin  poetry,  and  that,  if  he  did  not  wholly  neglect 
other  provinces  of  ancient  literature,  he  vouchsafed  to  them  only 
a  cursory  glance.  He  does  not  appear  to  have  attained  more 
than  an  ordinary  acquaintance  with  the  pohtical  and  moral  writers 
of  Rome;  nor  was  his  own  Latin  prose  by  any  means  equal  to 
his  Latin  verse.  His  knowledge  of  Greek,  though  doubtless 
such  as  was,  in  his  time,  thought  respectable  at  Oxford,  was 
evidently  less  than  that  which  many  lads  now  carry  away  every 

1  One  of  the  greatest  of  the  Roman  poets  (95-55  B.C.). 

2  A  Roman  lyric  poet  (86-46  B.C.),  justly  admired  for  the  exquisite  grace 
and  beauty  of  his  compositions. 

3  A  Latin  poet,  who  was  born  at  Alexandria,  and  flourished  in  the  fourth 
century  A.D. 

4  A  Roman  Christian  poet,  born  in  Spain  about  A.D.  348. 

5  George  Buchanan  (1506-82),  an  eminent  Scottish  divine  and  historian, 
at  one  time  tutor  to  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  and  to  her  son,  afterwards  James  I. 
of  England.  His  History  of  Scotland,  written  in  Latin,  is  remarkable  for 
the  vigor  and  beauty  of  its  style. 

6  John  Milton  (1608-74),  author  of  Paradise  Lost. 


THE  LIFE  AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON,  23 

year  from  Eton  and  Rugby. ^  A  minute  examination  of  his 
works,  if  we  had  time  to  make  such  an  examination,  would  fully 
bear  out  these  remarks.  We  will  briefly  advert  to  a  few  of  the 
facts  on  which  our  judgment  is  grounded. 

Great  praise  is  due  to  the  notes  which  Addison  appended  to  his 
version  of  the  second  and  third  books  of  the  *^  Metamorphoses."  ^ 
Yet  those  notes,  while  they  show  him  to  have  been,  in  his  own 
domain,  an  accompHshed  scholar,  show  also  how  confined  that 
domain  was.  They  are  rich  in  apposite  references  to  Virgil,^ 
Statins,*  and  Claudian ;  but  they  contain  not  a  single  illustration 
drawn  from  the  Greek  poets.  Now  if,  in  the  whole  compass  of 
Latin  literature,  there  be  a  passage  which  stands  in  need  of  illus- 
tration drawn  from  the  Greek  poets,  it  is  the  story  of  Pentheus 
in  the  third  book  of  the  ''  Metamorphoses."  Ovid  was  indebted 
for  that  story  to  Euripides  ^  and  Theocritus,^  both  of  whom  he 
has  sometimes  followed  minutely.  But  neither  to  Euripides  nor 
to  Theocritus  does  Addison  make  the  faintest  allusion ;  and  we 
therefore  beheve  that  we  do  not  wrong  him  by  supposing  that 
he  had  little  or  no  knowledge  of  their  works. 

His  travels  in  Italy,  again,  abound  with  classical  quotations 
happily  introduced ;  but  scarcely  one  of  those  quotations  is  in 
prose.  He  draws  more  illustrations  from  Ausonius  and  Manilius  "^ 
than  from  Cicero. ^  Even  his  notions  of  the  political  and  miHtary 
affairs  of  the  Romans  seem  to  be  derived  from  poets  and  poet- 

1  Eton  and  Rugby,  two  famous  English  schools. 

2  Poems  written  by  Ovid  (43  B.C.-A.D.  18),  a  celebrated  Roman  poet  of 
the  Augustan  age. 

2  The  great  Roman  epic  poet  (70-19  B.C.),  author  of  the  ^neid  and  of 
the  pastoral  Eclogues  and  Georgics. 

4  A  Roman  poet  (A.D.  61-96),  author  of  the  Thebais. 

5  One  of  the  three  great  Greek  tragic  writers,  born  about  481  B.C. 

6  The  greatest  of  the  Greek  pastoral  and  idyllic  poets.  He  was  born  in 
Syracuse,  Sicily,  early  in  the  third  century  B.C. 

^  Inferior  Latin  poets,  the  former  of  the  fourth  century,  the  latter  of  the 
first. 

8  Marcus  Tullius  Cicero  (106-43  B.C.),  the  greatest  of  Roman  orators. 


24  MACAULAY. 

asters.  Spots  made  memorable  by  events  which  have  changed 
the  destinies  of  the  world,  and  which  have  been  worthily  recorded 
by  great  historians,  bring  to  his  mind  only  scraps  of  some  ancient 
versifier.  In  the  gorge  of  the  Apennines  he  naturally  remembers 
the  hardships  which  Hannibal's  ^  army  endured,  and  proceeds 
to  cite,  not  the  authentic  narrative  of  Polybius,^  not  the  pictur- 
esque narrative  of  Livy,^  but  the  languid  hexameters  of  Silius 
Italicus.^  On  the  banks  of  the  Rubicon^  he  never  thinks  of 
Plutarch's  lively  description,  or  of  the  stern  conciseness  of  the 
Commentaries,^  or  of  those  Letters  to  Atticus  "^  which  so  forcibly 
express  the  alternations  of  hope  and  fear  in  a  sensitive  mind  at 
a  great  crisis.  His  only  authority  for  the  events  of  the  civil  war  is 
Lucan.^ 

All  the  best  ancient  works  of  art  at  Rome  and  Florence  are 
Greek.  Addison  saw  them,  however,  without  recalling  one  single 
verse  of  Pindar,^  of  Callimachus,^^  or  of  the  Attic  dramatists; 

1  The  great  Carthaginian  general  (247-183  B.C.),  who  crossed  the  Alps, 
invaded  Italy,  and  defeated  the  Romans  in  several  engagements.  He  was 
finally  recalled  to  Africa  to  resist  the  advance  of  Scipio,  who  defeated  him 
in  the  battle  of  Zama. 

2  A  Greek  historian,  born  about  204  B.C.  He  wrote  a  general  history 
of  the  affairs  of  Greece  and  Rome,  in  forty  books,  of  which  only  five  are 
extant. 

3  An  illustrious  Roman  historian  (59  B.C.-A.D.  18),  who  wrote  the 
Annals  of  Rome  from  the  foundation  to  9  B.C.  Only  thirty-five  of  its  one 
hundred  and  forty-two  books  have  survived. 

4  A  minor  Latin  pofet  (A.D.  25-101). 

5  A  small  river  in  Italy,  which  formed  the  southern  boundary  of  the  prov- 
ince of  Gaul.  By  crossing  it  with  his  army,  Caesar  virtually  declared  war 
against  the  Republic. 

6  Caesar's  Commentaries  on  the  Gallic  War. 

7  The  Letters  to  Atticus,  a  noble  Roman,  were  addressed  to  him  by  his 
friend  Cicero. 

8  A  celebrated  Roman  poet,  born  in  Spain,  A.D.  37.  His  great  work  is 
Pharsalia,  a  poem  on  the  civil  war  between  Caesar  and  Pompey. 

9  The  greatest  of  the  Greek  lyric  poets,  born  about  522  B.C. 

10  A  Greek  poet  in  the  third  century  B.C.,  author  of  an  epic  poem,  Argo- 
nautica. 


THE   LIFE  AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON  25 

but  they  brought  to  his  recollection  innumerable  passages  of 
Horace,  1  Juvenal,^  Statins,  and  Ovid,     k 

The  same  may  be  said  of  the  treatise  on  medals.  In  that 
pleasing  work  we  find  about  three  hundred  passages  extracted 
with  great  judgment  from  the  Roman  poets;  but  we  do  not 
recollect  a  single  passage  taken  from  any  Roman  orator  or  his- 
torian, and  we  are  confident  that  not  a  line  is  quoted  from  any 
Greek  writer.  No  person  who  had  derived  all  his  information 
on  the  subject  of  medals  from  Addison  would  suspect  that  the 
Greek  coins  were  in  historical  interest  equal,  and  in  beauty  of 
execution  far  superior,  to  those  of  Rome. 

If  it  were  necessary  to  find  any  further  proof  that  Addison's 
classical  knowledge  was  confined  within  narrow  limits,  that  proof 
would  be  furnished  by  his  *^  Essay  on  the  Evidences  of  Christi- 
anity." The  Roman  poets  throw  little  or  no  light  on  the  literary 
and  historical  questions  which  he  is  under  the  necessity  of  examin- 
ing in  that  essay.  He  is,  therefore,  left  completely  in  the  dark ; 
and  it  is  melancholy  to  see  how  helplessly  he  gropes  his  way  from 
blunder  to  blunder.  He  assigns  as  grounds  for  his  rehgious  be- 
lief stories  as  absurd  as  that  of  the  Cock  Lane  ghost,^  and  for- 
geries as  rank  as  Ireland's  Vortigern  ;  ^  puts  faith  in  the  lie  about 
the  Thundering  Legion  ;  ^  is  convinced  that  Tiberius  ^  moved  the 

1  One  of  the  poets  of  the  Augustan  age  in  Rome,  whose  odes,  epistles, 
and  satires  show  the  Latin  tongue  in  its  perfection. 

2  A  Roman  poet  and  satirist  in  the  first  century  A.D.,  unrivaled  as  a  casti- 
gator  of  vice. 

3  The  name  given  to  the  supposed  cause  of  strange  phenomena  which  took 
place  about  the  bed  of  a  young  girl,  in  1762,  in  Cock  Lane,  London.  It 
was  found  to  be  an  imposture,  and  the  principals  were  punished. 

4  W.  H.  Ireland  (i 777-1835)  forged  an  autograph  of  Shakespeare,  a  deed 
purporting  to  be  in  the  poet's  handwriting,  and  finally  a  play,  Vortigern, 
which  Sheridan  brought  out  at  Drury  Lane.  The  imposture  was  exposed  by 
Malone,  and  Ireland  made  a  full  confession. 

5  A  name  given  to  a  Roman  legion,  A.D.  179 ;  the  prayers  of  some  Chris- 
tians in  it  having  been  followed,  it  is  said,  by  a  thunderstorm  which  quenched 
their  thirst,  and  discomfited  the  enemy. 

*  Tiberius  (42  B.C.-A.D.  37),  SQQond  Emperor  of  Rome. 


26  MAC  AULA  Y, 

senate  to  admit  Jesus  among  the  gods ;  and  pronounces  the  letter 
of  Agbarus,  King  of  Edessa,  to  be  a  record  of  great  authority.^ 
Nor  were  these  errors  the  effects  of  superstition,  for  to  supersti- 
tion Addison  was  by  no  means  prone.  The  truth  is,  that  he  was 
writing  about  what  he  did  not  understand. 

Miss  Aikin  has  discovered  a  letter,  from  which  it  appears,  that, 
while  Addison  resided  at  Oxford,  he  was  one  of  several  writers 
whom  the  booksellers  engaged  to  make  an  English  version  of 
Herodotus  ;2  and  she  infers  that  he  must  have  been  a  good  Greek 
scholar.  We  can  allow  very  little  weight  to  this  argument,  when 
we  consider  that  his  fellow  laborers  were  to  have  been  Boyle  and 
Blackmore.3  Boyle  is  remembered  chiefly  as  the  nominal  author 
of  the  worst  book  on  Greek  history  and  philology  that  ever  was 
printed ;  and  this  book,  bad  as  it  is,  Boyle  was  unable  to  pro- 
duce without  help.  Of  Blackmore's  attainments  in  the  ancient 
tongues,  it  may  be  sufficient  to  say,  that  in  his  prose  he  has 
confounded  an  aphorism  with  an  apothegm,  and  that  when, 
in  his  verse,  he  treats  of  classical  subjects,  his  habit  is  to  regale 
his  readers  with  four  false  quantities  to  a  page. 

It  is  probable  that  the  classical  acquirements  of  Addison  were 
of  as  much  service  to  him  as  if  they  had  been  more  extensive. 
The  world  generally  gives  its  admiration,  not  to  the  man  who 
does  what  nobody  else  even  attempts  to  do,  but  to  the  man  who 
does  best  what  multitudes  do  Well.  Bentley  ^  was  so  immeasure- 
ably  superior  to  all  the  other  scholars  of  his  time,  that  few  among 
them  could  discover  his  superiority.  But  the  accomplishment  in 
which  Addison  excelled  his  contemporaries  was  then,  as  it  is  now, 

1  Agbarus,  according  to  a  tradition  of  the  Church,  wrote  a  letter  to  Jesus, 
and  received  one  in  reply. 

2  Born  434  B.C.,  and  called  the  '*  Father  of  History."  He  visited  most 
of  the  then  known  portions  of  the  globe,  and  wrote  an  account  of  them. 

3  Robert  Boyle  (1626-91)  and  Sir  Richard  Blackmore  (i  650-1 729)  were 
both  distinguished  writers. 

4  Richard  Bentley  (1662-1742),  an  English  divine  distinguished  for  his 
classical  learning.  He  had  a  controversy  with  Charles  Boyle  (i 676-1 731)  as 
to  the  genuineness  of  the  Epistles  of  Phalaris,  which  he  pronounced  spurious. 


THE  LIFE  AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON.  27 

highly  valued  and  assiduously  cultivated  at  all  Enghsh  seats  of 
learning.  Everybody  who  had  been  at  a  pubHc  school  had  written 
Latin  verses :  many  had  written  such  verses  with  tolerable  suc- 
cess, and  were  quite  able  to  appreciate,  though  by  no  means  able 
to  rival,  the  skill  with  which  Addison  imitated  Virgil.  His  lines 
on  the  "  Barometer  "  and  the  "  Bowling  Green  "  were  applauded 
by  hundreds  to  whom  the  "  Dissertation  on  the  Epistles  of  Pha- 
laris  "  was  as  unintelligible  as  the  hieroglyphics  on  an  obelisk. 

Purity  of  style,  and  an  easy  flow  of  numbers,  are  common  to 
all  Addison's  Latin  poems.  Our  favorite  piece  is  the  ''  Battle  of 
the  Cranes  and  Pygmies,"  for  in  that  piece  we  discern  a  gleam  of 
the  fancy  and  humor  which  many  years  later  enlivened  thousands 
of  breakfast  tables.  Swift  ^  boasted  that  he  was  never  known  to 
steal  a  hint ;  and  he  certainly  owed  as  little  to  his  predecessors 
as  any  modern  writer.  Yet  we  cannot  help  suspecting  that  he 
borrowed,  perhaps  unconsciously,  one  of  the  happiest  touches  in 
his  "  Voyage  to  Lilliput "  from  Addison's  verses.  Let  our  readers 
judge. 

"  The  Emperor,"  says  Gulliver,  ''  is  taller  by  about  the  breadth 
of  my  nail  than  any  of  his  court,  which  alone  is  enough  to  strike 
an  awe  into  the  beholders." 

About  thirty  years  before  "  Gulliver's  Travels "  appeared, 
Addison  wrote  these  hnes: — 

'*  Jamque  acies  inter  madias  sese  arduus  infert 
Pygmeadum  ductor,  qui,  majestate  verendus, 
Incessuque  gravis,  reliquos  supereminet  omnes 
Mole  gigantea,  mediamque  exsurgit  in  ulnam."2 

The  Latin  poems  of  Addison  were  greatly  and  justly  admired 
both  at  Oxford  and  Cambridge,  before  his  name  had  ever  been 

1  Jonathan  Swift  (1667-1745),  author  of  Gulliver's  Travels,  Tale  of  a 
Tub,  Battle  of  the  Books,  etc.  ^ 

2  ""And  now  the  tall  leader  of  the  Pygmies  presents  himself  within  the 
lines  of  battle,  who,  terrible  in  his  majesty  and  heavy  in  his  gait,  overtops  all 
the  rest  with  his  huge  mass,  and  rises  to  the  middle  of  the  arm." 


28  MACAULAY, 

heard  by  the  wits  who  thronged  the  coffeehouses  round  Drury 
Lane  Theater.  In  his  twenty-second  year  he  ventured  to  appear 
before  the  pubhc  as  a  writer  of  Enghsh  verse.  He  addressed 
some  comphmentary  hues  to  Dryden,^  who,  after  many  triumphs 
and  many  reverses,  had  at  length  reached  a  secure  and  lonely 
eminence  among  the  hterary  men  of  that  age.  Dryden  appears 
to  have  been  much  gratified  by  the  young  scholar's  praise ;  and 
an  interchange  of  civilities  and  good  offices  followed.  Addison 
was  probably  introduced  by  Dryden  to  Congreve,  and  was  cer- 
tainly presented  by  Congreve  to  Charles  Montague,^  who  was 
then  chancellor  of  the  exchequer,  and  leader  of  the  Whig  party 
in  the  House  of  Commons. 

At  this  time,  Addison  seemed  inclined  to  devote  himself  to 
poetry.  He  published  a  translation  of  part  of  the  fourth  '*Geor- 
gic,"3  "Lines  to  King  WilHam,"  and  other  performances  of  equal 
value  ;  that  is  to  say,  of  no  value  at  all.  But  in  those  days  the  pub- 
lic was  in  the  habit  of  receiving  with  applause  pieces  which  would 
now  have  httle  chance  of  obtaining  the  Newdigate  prize  or  the 
Seatonian  prize.^  And  the  reason  is  obvious.  The  heroic  couplet 
was  then  the  favorite  measure.  The  art  of  arranging  words  in 
that  measure,  so  that  the  lines  may  flow  smoothly,  that  the 
accents  may  fall  correctly,  that  the  rhymes  may  strike  the  ear 
strongly,  and  that  there  may  be  a  pause  at  the  end  of  every 
distich,  is  an  art  as  mechanical  as  that  of  mending  a  kettle,  or 
shoeing  a  horse,  and  may  be  learned  by  any  human  being  who 
has  sense  enough  to  learn  anything.  But,  like  other  mechanical 
arts,  it  was  gradually  improved  by  means  of  many  experiments 

1  John  Dryden  (i 631- 1700),  a  famous  English  poet,  author  of  a  translation 
of  Virgil's  ^neid  and  a  number  of  plays  and  poems. 

2  Lord  Halifax  (1661-1715),  a  distinguished  wit,  statesman,  and  finan- 
cier, who,  when  chancellor  of  the  exchequer  under  William  III.,  directed 
the  recoining  r)f  all  the  current  money  of  the  nation.  He  was  a  lifelong 
friend  of  Addison. 

3  Of  Virgil. 

4  The  Newdigate  prize  and  the  Seatonian  prize  were  scholarships  ;  the  one 
at  Oxford,  the  other  at  Cambridge. 


THE  LIFE  AND    WRITINGS  OF  ADDISON.  29 

and  many  failures.  It  was  reserved  for  Pope^  to  discover  the 
trick,  to  make  himself  complete  master  of  it,  and  to  teach  it  to 
everybody  else.  From  the  time  when  his  "Pastorals"  appeared, 
heroic  versification  became  matter  of  rule  and  compass ;  and 
before  long  all  artists  were  on  a  level.  Hundreds  of  dunces  who 
never  blundered  on  one  happy  thought  or  expression  were  able 
to  write  reams  of  couplets,  which,  as  far  as  euphony  was  con- 
cerned, could  not  be  distinguished  from  those  of  Pope  himself, 
and  which  very  clever  writers  of  the  reign  of  Charles  II. — 
Rochester,^  for  example,  or  Marvell,^  or  Oldham^ — would 
have  contemplated  with  admiring  despair. 

Ben  Jonson  ^  was  a  great  man,  Hoole  ^  a  very  small  man. 
But  Hoole,  coming  after  Pope,  had  learned  how  to  manufacture 
decasyllable  verses,  and  poured  them  forth  by  thousands  and  tens 
of  thousands,  all  as  well  turned,  as  smooth,  and  as  like  each  othei' 
as  the  blocks  which  have  passed  through  Mr.  Brunei's  ^  mill  in  the 
dockyard  at  Portsmouth.  Ben's  heroic  couplets  resemble  blocks 
rudely  hewn  out  by  an  unpracticed  hand  with  a  blunt  hatchet. 
Take  as  a  specimen  his  translation  of  a  celebrated  passage  in 
the  "^neid  :  "  — 


'  Alexander  Pope  (1688-1744),  author  of  the  Rape  of  the  Lock,  an  Essay 
on  Man,  and  the  Dunciad.      He  also  translated  Homer's  Iliad. 

2  John  Wilmot,  Earl  of  Rochester  (1647-80),  a  wit,  poet,  and  profligate 
associate  of  Charles  II. 

3  Andrew  Marvell  (1620-78),  a  poet  and  political  writer  during  the  Com- 
monwealth, and  a  friend  of  Milton. 

4  John  Oldham  (1653-83)  wrote  in  imitation  of  Horace  and  Juvenal,  in  a 
style  of  coarse  but  vigorous  invective. 

5  Ben  Jonson  (i 574-1637),  a  dramatist  and  a  contemporary  and  friend  of 
Shakespeare. 

<5  John  Hoole  (i  727-1803)  wrote  translations  of  the  Italian  poets,  Tasso 
and  Ariosto,  and  several  poor  plays. 

^  Mark  Isambard  Brunei  (i 769-1849),  a  French  civil  engineer,  who  sub- 
mitted to  the  government  a  plan  for  making  block  pulleys  for  ships,  which 
was  carried  into  execution  in  the  dockyard  at  Portsmouth,  and  proved  a  great 
.success-     He  also  constructed  the  Thames  itunnol. 


3©  MAC  AULA  Y. 

**  This  child  our  parent  earth,  stirr'd  up  with  spite 
Of  all  the  gods,  brought  forth,  and,  as  some  write, 
She  was  last  sister  of  that  giant  race 
That  sought  to  scale  Jove's  court,  right  swift  of  pace, 
And  swifter  far  of  wing,  a  monster  vast 
And  dreadful.     Look,  how  many  plumes  are  placed 
On  her  huge  corpse,  so  many  waking  eyes 
Stick  underneath,  and,  which  may  stranger  rise 
In  the  report,  as  many  tongues  she  wears." 

Compare  with  these  jagged,  misshapen  distichs  the  neat  fabric 
which  Hoole's  machine  produces  in  unlimited  abundance.  We 
take  the  first  lines  on  which  we  open  in  his  version  of  Tasso.^ 
They  are  neither  better  nor  worse  than  the  rest: — 

'*  O  thou,  whoe'er  thou  art,  whose  steps  are  led. 
By  choice  or  fate,  these  lonely  shores  to  tread. 
No  greater  wonders  east  or  west  can  boast 
Than  yon  small  island  on  the  pleasing  coast. 
If  e'er  thy  sight  would  blissful  scenes  explore. 
The  current  pass,  and  seek  the  further  shore." 

Ever  since  the  time  of  Pope  there  has  been  a  glut  of  lines  of 
this  sort ;  and  we  are  now  as  Httle  disposed  to  admire  a  man  for 
being  able  to  write  them  as  for  being  able  to  write  his  name. 
But  in  the  days  of  William  III.  such  versification  was  rare;  and 
a  rhymer  who  had  any  skill  in  it  passed  for  a  great  poet,  just  as, 
in  the  dark  ages,  a  person  who  could  write  his  name  passed  for 
a  great  clerk.  Accordingly,  Duke,  Stepney,  Granville,  Walsh, 
and  others  whose  only  title  to  fame  was  that  they  said  in  toler- 
able meter  what  might  have  been  as  well  said  in  prose,  or  what 
was  not  worth  saying  at  all,  were  honored  with  marks  of  distinc- 
tion which  ought  to  be  reserved  for  genius.  With  these  Addison 
must  have  ranked,  if  he  had  not  earned  true  and  lasting  glory  by 
performances  which  very  Httle  resembled  his  juvenile  poems. 

1  Torquato  Tasso  (1544-95),  one  of  the  greatest  of  modern  Italian  poets, 
author  of  Jerusalem  Delivered,  an  epic  poem  in  twenty-four  books. 


THE  LIFE  AND    WRITINGS  OF  ADDISON.  31 

Dryden  was  now  busied  with  Virgil,  and  obtained  from  Addison 
a  critical  preface  to  the  '*  Georgics."  In  return  for  this  service, 
and  for  other  services  of  the  same  kind,  the  veteran  poet,  in  the 
postscript  to  the  translation  of  the  ''^neid,"  complimented  his 
young  friend  with  great  hberality,  and  indeed  with  more  liberality 
than  sincerity.  He  affected  to  be  afraid  that  his  own  performance 
would  not  sustain  a  comparison  with  the  version  of  the  fourth 
'*  Georgic,"  by  **  the  most  ingenious  Mr.  Addison  of  Oxford." 
''  After  his  bees,"  added  Dryden,  '''  my  latter  swarm  is  scarcely 
worth  the  hiving."  ^ 

The  time  had  now  arrived  when  it  was  necessary  for  Addison 
to  choose  a  calling.  Everything  seemed  to  point  his  course 
towards  the  clerical  profession.  His  habits  were  regular,  his 
opinions  orthodox.  His  college  had  large  ecclesiastical  prefer- 
ment in  its  gift,  and  boasts  that  it  has  given  at  least  one  bishop 
to  almost  every  see  in  England.  Dr.  Lancelot  Addison  held  an 
honorable  place  in  the  Church,  and  had  set  his  heart  on  seeing 
his  son  a  clergyman.  It  is  clear,  from  some  expressions  in  the 
young  man's  rhymes,  that  his  intention  was  to  take  orders.  But 
Charles  Montague  interfered.  Montague  had  first  brought  him- 
self into  notice  by  verses,  well  timed  and  not  contemptibly  written, 
but  never,  we  think,  rising  above  mediocrity.  Fortunately  for 
himself  and  for  his  country,  he  early  quitted  poetry,  in  which  he 
could  never  have  attained  a  rank  as  high  as  that  of  Dorset  '^  or 
Rochester,  and  turned  his  mind  to  official  and  parliamentary 
business.  It  is  written  that  the  ingenious  person  who  undertook 
to  instruct  Rasselas,^  prince  of  Abyssinia,  in  the  art  of  flying, 
ascended  an  eminence,  waved  his  wings,  sprang  into  the  air,  and 
instantly  dropped  into  the  lake.  But  it  is  added  that  the  wings 
which  were  unable  to  support  him  through  the  sky,  bore  him  up 

^  In  his  fourth  Georgic,  Virgil  describes  the  habits  of  bees. 

2  Charles  Sackville,  Earl  of  Dorset  (163 7- 1706),  a  favorite  courtier  of 
Charles  II.,  a  generous  patron  of  men  of  letters,  and  himself  author  of  some 
verses  now  almost  forgotten. 

3  Rasselas  is  the  title  of  an  Eastern  tale  written  by  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson. 


32  MACAULAY. 

effectually  as  soon  as  he  was  in  the  water.  This  is  no  bad  type 
of  the  fate  of  Charles  Montague,  and  of  men  Hke  him.  When 
he*  attempted  to  soar  into  the  regions  of  poetical  invention,  he 
altogether  failed ;  but,  as  soon  as  he  had  descended  from  that 
ethereal  elevation  into  a  lower  and  grosser  element,  his  talents  in- 
stantly raised  him  above  the  mass.  He  became  a  distinguished 
financier,  debater,  courtier,  and  party  leader.  He  still  retained 
his  fondness  for  the  pursuits  of  his  early  days ;  but  he  showed 
that  fondness,  not  by  wearying  the  pubhc  with  his  own  feeble 
performances,  but  by  discovering  and  encouraging  hterary  ex- 
cellence in  others.  A  crowd  of  wits  and  poets,  who  would  easily 
have  vanquished  him  as  a  competitor,  revered  him  as  a  judge  and 
a  patron.  In  his  plans  for  the  encouragement  of  learning,  he 
was  cordially  supported  by  the  ablest  and  most  virtuous  of  his 
colleagues,  the  Lord  Chancellor  Somers.^  Though  both  these 
great  statesmen  had  a  sincere  love  of  letters,  it  was  not  solely 
frAn  a  love  of  letters  that  they  were  desirous  to  enlist  youths  of 
high  intellectual  quaHfications  in  the  pubhc  service.  The  Revo- 
lution had  altered  the  whole  system  of  government.  Before  that 
event,  the  press  had  been  controlled  by  censors,  and  the  Parlia- 
ment had  sat  only  two  months  in  eight  years.  Now  the  press 
was  free,  and  had  begun  to  exercise  unprecedented  influence  on 
the  public  mind.  Parliament  met  annually,  and  sat  long.  The 
chief  power  in  the  State  had  passed  to  the  House  of  Commons. 
At  such  a  conjuncture  it  was  natural  that  literary  and  oratorical 
talents  should  rise  in  value.  There  was  danger  that  a  government 
which  neglected  such  talents  might  be  subverted  by  them.  It 
was,  therefore,  a  profound  and  enhghtened  policy  which  led  Mon- 
tague and  Somers  to  attach  such  talents  to  the  Whig^  party 
by  the  strongest  ties  both  of  interest  and  of  gratitude. 

1  John,  Lord  Somers  (1652-1716),  was  made  by  William  III.  successively 
attorney-general,  lord  keeper  of  the  Great  Seal,  and  lord  high  chancellor. 
He  was  president  of  the  Royal  Society  and  a  great  patron  of  learning. 

2  A  name  applied  first  in  1679  to  that  one  of  the  two  great  parties  in  Eng- 
land which  advocated  liberal  principles  in  politics,  as  opposed  to  the  Tories.. 


THE  LIFE  AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON.  Z2> 

It  is  remarkable  that  in  a  neighboring  country  we  have  re- 
cently seen  similar  effects  follow  from  similar  causes.  The  Revo- 
lution of  July,  1830,  estabhshed  representative  government  in 
France.  The  men  of  letters  instantly  rose  to  the  highest  impor- 
tance in  the  State.  At  the  present  moment,  most  of  the  persons 
whom  we  see  at  the  head  both  of  the  Administration  and  of  the 
Opposition  have  been  professors,  historians,  journalists,  poets. 
The  influence  of  the  literary  class  in  England  during  the  genera- 
tion which  followed  the  Revolution  was  great,  but  by  no  means 
so  great  as  it  has  lately  been  in  France ;  for  in  England  the 
aristocracy  of  intellect  had  to  contend  with  a  powerful  and  deeply 
rooted  aristocracy  of  a  very  different  kind.  France  had  no  Som 
ersets  ^  and  Shrewsburies  -  to  keep  down  her  Addisons  and  Priors 

It  was  in  the  year  1699,  when  Addison  had  just  completed  hie 
twenty-seventh  year,  that  the  course  of  his  life  was  finally  dete: 
mined.  Both  the  great  chiefs  of  the  ministry  were  kindly  dis- 
posed towards  him.  In  political  opinions  he  already  was  wflat 
he  continued  to  be  through  life,  a  firm  though  a  moderate  Whig, 
He  had  addressed  the  most  polished  and  vigorous  of  his  early 
English  lines  to  Somers,  and  had  dedicated  to  Montague  a  Latin 
poem,  truly  Virgilian  both  in  style  and  rhythm,  on  the  peace  of 
Ryswick.^  The  wish  of  the  young  poet's  great  friends  was,  it 
should  seem,  to  employ  him  in  the  service  of  the  Crown  abroad. 
But  an  intimate  knowledge  of  the  French  language  was  a  quali- 
fication indispensable  to  a  diplomatist ;  and  this  qualification 
Addison  had  not  acquired.  It  was  therefore  thought  desirable 
that  he  should  pass  some  time  on  the  Continent  in  preparing 

1  Charles  Seymour  (1661-1748),  known  as  "  the  proud  Duke  of  Somerset," 
who  filled  several  high  positions  in  the  reigns  of  Charles  II.,  William  III., 
and  Queen  Anne. 

2  Charles  Talbot,  Earl  of  Shrewsbury  (1684-1737),  a  lawyer  and  states- 
man of  high  character,  a  solicitor-general,  and  lord  high  chancellor  of 
England. 

3  The  peace  of  Ryswick  was  a  treaty  concluded  in  1697  in  Ryswick,  a 
town  of  Holland,  which  put  an  end  to  the  bloody  contest  in  which  England 
and  France  had  been  engaged. 

3  


34  MACAULAY. 

himself  for  official  employment.  His  own  means  were  not  such 
as  would  enable  him  to  travel ;  but  a  pension  of  three  hundred 
pounds  a  year  was  procured  for  him  by  the  interest  of  the  lord 
chancellor.  It  seems  to  have  been  apprehended  that  some  diffi- 
culty might  be  started  by  the  rulers  of  Magdalen  College ;  but 
the  chancellor  of  the  exchequer^  wrote  in  the  strongest  terms 
to  Hough.  The  State — such  was  the  purport  of  Montague's 
letter — could  not  at  that  time  spare  to  the  Church  such  a  man 
as  Addison.  Too  many  high  civil  posts  were  already  occupied 
by  adventurers,  who,  destitute  of  every  liberal  art  and  sentiment, 
at  once  pillaged  and  disgraced  the  country  which  they  pretended 
to  serve.  It  had  become  necessary  to  recruit  for  the  public 
service  from  a  very  different  class, — from  that  class  of  which 
Addison  was  the  representative.  The  close  of  the  minister's 
letter  was  remarkable.  '*  I  am  called,"  he  said,  '*  an  enemy  of 
the  Church ;  but  I  will  never  do  it  any  other  injury  than  keeping 
m-.  Addison  out  of  it." 

This  interference  was  successful;  and  in  the  summer  of  1699 
Addison,  made  a  rich  man  by  his  pension,  and  still  retaining  his 
fellowship,  quitted  his  beloved  Oxford,  and  set  out  on  his  travels. 
He  crossed  from  Dover  to  Calais,  proceeded  to  Paris,  and  was 
received  there  with  great  kindness  and  politeness  by  a  kinsman 
of  his  friend  Montague,  Charles,  Earl  of  Manchester,  who  had 
just  been  appointed  ambassador  to  the  court  of  France.  The 
countess,  a  Whig  and  a  toast,^  was  probably  as  gracious  as  her 
lord ;  for  Addison  long  retained  an  agreeable  recollection  of  the 
impression  which  she  at  this  time  made  on  him,  and,  in  some 
lively  lines  written  on  the  glasses  of  the  Kit  Cat  Club,^  described 

1  The  chancellor  of  the  exchequer  in  England  is  the  member  of  the  cabi- 
net of  ministers  having  charge  of  the  finances.  The  lord  high  chancellor 
is  the  presiding  judge  of  the  Court  of  Chancery,  and  chief  adviser  of  the 
Crown  in  matters  of  law  and  conscience. 

2  A  toast  was  some  reigning  beauty  whose  health  was  drunk  in  a  company 
of  gentlemen.  In  the  Kit  Cat  Club  the  name,  with  some  appropriate  verse, 
was  often  inscribed  on  the  glasses. 

3  The  Kit  Cat  Club  was  a  famous  association  formed  about   1700,  and  so 


THE   LIFE   AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON.  35 

the  envy  which  her  cheeks,  glowing  with  the  genuine  bloom  of 
England,  had  excited  among  the  painted  beauties  of  Versailles. 

Louis  XIV.i  was  at  this  time  expiating  the  vices  of  his  youth 
by  a  devotion  which  had  no  root  in  reason,  and  bore  no  fruit 
of  charity.  The  servile  Hterature  of  France  had  changed  its 
character  to  suit  the  changed  character  of  the  prince.  No  book 
appeared  that  had  not  an  air  of  sanctity.  Racine,^  who  was 
just  dead,  had  passed  the  close  of  his  life  in  writing  sacred 
dramas  ;  and  Dacier  ^  was  seeking  for  the  Athanasian  ^  mysteries 
in  Plato.^  Addison  described  this  state  of  things  in  a  short  but 
lively  and  graceful  letter  to  Montague.  Another  letter,  written 
about  the  same  time  to  the  lord  chancellor,  conveyed  the  strong- 
est assurances  of  gratitude  and  attachment.  *'  The  only  return  I 
can  make  to  your  lordship,"  said  Addison,  '*  will  be  to  apply  myself 
entirely  to  my  business."  With  this  view  he  quitted  Paris,  and 
repaired  to  Blois,  a  place  where  it  was  supposed  that  the  Frejich 
language  was  spoken  in  its  highest  purity,  and  where  not  a  single 
Enghshman  could  be  found.  Here  he  passed  some  months 
pleasantly  and  profitably.  Of  his  way  of  life  at  Blois,  one  of  his 
associates,  an  abbe  named  Philippeaux,  gave  an  account  to 
Joseph  Spence.®  If  this  account  is  to  be  trusted,  Addison 
studied  much,  mused  much,  talked  little,  had  fits  of  absence,  and 

called  from  Christopher  Cat,  a  pastry  cook  who  made  their  mutton  pies.     It 
was  composed  originally  of  about  forty  noblemen  and  gentlemen,  all  Whigs. 

1  King  of  France  (b.  1638;  d.  1715). 

2  Jean  Racine  (1639-99),  author  of  tragedies,  mostly  upon  classical  themes, 
which  still  keep  possession  of  the  French  stage. 

3  Andre  Dacier  (1651-1722),  a  French  philologist. 

4  Athanasius,  one  of  the  most  distinguished  of  the  Greek  fathers,  born  in 
Alexandria  about  A.D.  296.  He  was  author  of  the  famous  Athanasian  Creed, 
still  in  use  in  the  Church. 

5  A  great  Greek  philosopher  (429-347  B.C.),  pupil  of  Socrates,  whose 
system  of  ethics  and  philosophy  he  has  preserved  in  his  Dialogues. 

6  A  fellow  of  Oxford,  and  for  a  time  professor  of  poetry  in  the  university 
(b.  1699;  d.  1768).  He  left  interesting  records  of  conversations  with  Pope 
and  other  eminent  men  of  the  time. 


36  MACAULAY, 

either  had  no  love  affairs  or  was  too  discreet  to  confide  them  to 
the  abbe.  A  man  who,  even  when  surrounded  by  fellow  coun- 
trymen and  fellow  students,  had  always  been  remarkably  shy  and 
silent,  was  not  hkely  to  be  loquacious  in  a  foreign  tongue  and 
among  foreign  companions.  But  it  is  clear  from  Addison's  let- 
ters, some  of  which  were  long  after  pubhshed  in  the  ''  Guardian,"  ^ 
that,  while  he  appeared  to  be  absorbed  in  his  own  meditations, 
he  was  really  observing  French  society  with  that  keen  and  sly, 
yet  not  ill-natured  side  glance  which  was  peculiarly  his  own. 

From  Blois  he  returned  to  Paris,  and,  having  now  mastered 
the  French  language,  found  great  pleasure  in  the  society  of  French 
philosophers  and  poets.  He  gave  an  account,  in  a  letter  to 
Bishop  Hough,  of  two  highly  interesting  conversations,  one  with 
Malebranche,-  the  other  with  Boileau.^  Malebranche  expressed 
great  partiahty  for  the  English,  and  extolled  the  genius  of  New- 
ton,* but  shook  his  head  when  Hobbes  ^  was  mentioned,  and  was 
indeed  so  unjust  as  to  call  the  author  of  the  "  Leviathan  "  a  poor 
silly  creature.  Addison's  modesty  restrained  him  from  fully  re- 
lating, in  his  letter,  the  circumstances  of  his  introduction  to  Boi- 
leau.  Boileau  having  survived  the  friends  and  rivals  of  his  youth 
—  old,  deaf,  and  melancholy  —  lived  in  retirement,  seldom  went 
either  to  court  or  to  the  Academy ,6  and  was  almost  inaccessible 
to  strangers.  Of  the  English  and  of  English  literature  he  knew 
nothing.  He  had  hardly  heard  the  name  of  Dry  den.  Some  of 
our  countrymen,  in  the  warmth  of  their  patriotism,  have  asserted 

1  One  of  the  three  serial  papers  conducted  by  Steele,  to  which  Addison 
contributed. 

2  Nicolas  Malebranche  (1638-17 15),  a  celebrated  French  philosopher. 

3  A  famous  French  poet  and  satirist  (1636-1711). 

*  Sir  Isaac  Newton  (1642-1727),  the  greatest  of  English  mathematicians 
and  astronomers,  renowned  for  his  discovery  of  the  law  of  gravitation,  his 
invention  of  the  method  of  the  calculus,  and  his  investigations  in  the  science 
of  optics. 

5  Thomas  Hobbes  (i  588-1679),  an  English  philosopher,  distinguished  in 
his  day,  but  now  almost  forgotten.      His  principal  work  was  the  Leviathan. 

6  The  French  Academy  was  instituted  in  1635  by  Cardinal  Richelieu. 


THE  LIFE  AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON.  37 

that  this  ignorance  must  have  been  affected.  We  own  that  we 
see  no  ground  for  such  a  supposition.  EngHsh  Kterature  was  to 
the  French  of  the  age  of  Louis  XIV.  what  German  Uterature 
was  to  our  own  grandfathers.  Very  few,  we  suspect,  of  the 
accompHshed  men  who,  sixty  or  seventy  years  ago,  used  to  dine 
in  Leicester  Square  with  Sir  Joshua,^  or  at  Streatham  with 
Mrs.  Thrale,^  had  the  sHghtest  notion  that  Wieland^  was  one 
of  the  first  wits  and  poets,  and  Lessing,^  beyond  all  dispute,  the 
first  critic  in  Europe.  Boileau  knew  just  as  httle  about  the  *'  Par- 
adise Lost,"  and  about  "  Absalom  and  Achitophel ;  "  ^  but  he 
had  read  Addison's  Latin  poems,  and  admired  them  greatly. 
They  had  given  him,  he  said,  quite  a  new  notion  of  the  state  of 
learning  and  taste  among  the  English.  Johnson  will  have  it  that 
these  praises  were  insincere.  "  Nothing,"  says  he,  "  is  better 
known  of  Boileau  than  that  he  had  an  injudicious  and  peevish 
contempt  of  modern  Latin ;  and  therefore  his  profession  of 
regard  was  probably  the  effect  of  his  civility  rather  than  appro- 
bation." Now,  nothing  is  better  known  of  Boileau  than  that  he 
was  singularly  sparing  of  compliments.  We  do  not  remember 
that  either  friendship  or  fear  ever  induced  him  to  bestow  praise 
on  any  composition  which  he  did  not  approve.  On  literary 
questions  his  caustic,  disdainful,  and  self-confident  spirit  rebelled 
against  that  authority  to  which  everything  else  in  France  bowed 
down.  He  had  the  spirit  to  tell  Louis  XIV.,  firmly  and  even 
rudely,  that  his  Majesty  knew  nothing  about  poetry,  and   ad- 

1  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  (1723-92),  the  famous  portrait  painter,  resided  in 
Leicester  Square,  London. 

2  Afterwards  Mrs.  Piozzi,  wife  of  a  wealthy  London  brewer,  who  by  her 
many  social  charms  drew  a  brilliant  circle  of  men  of  letters,  artists,  and 
others  about  her,  at  her  home  at  Streatham.  Dr.  Johnson  was  for  a  long 
time  a  guest  there. 

3  A  German  poet  and  novelist(i  733-1813),  and  author  of  numerous  works. 

4  A  distinguished  German  critic,  dramatist,  and  writer  (1729-81),  whose 
works  are  among  the  classics  of  German  literature,  and  have  done  much 
to  refine  and  polish  its  style. 

5  A  famous  political  satire  by  Dryden. 


38  ^  MACAULAY, 

mired  verses  which  were  detestable.  What  was  there  in  Addi- 
son's position  that  could  induce  the  satirist  whose  stern  and 
fastidious  temper  had  been  the  dread  of  two  generations  to  turn 
sycophant  for  the  first  and  last  time  ?  Nor  was  Boileau's 
contempt  of  modern  Latin  either  injudicious  or  peevish.  He 
thought,  indeed,  that  no  poem  of  the  first  order  would  ever  be 
written  in  a  dead  language.  And  did  he  think  amiss  ?  Has 
not  the  experience  of  centuries  confirmed  his  opinion  ?  Boileau 
also  thought  it  probable  that,  in  the  best  modern  Latin,  a  writer 
of  the  Augustan  age  ^  would  have  detected  ludicrous  improprie- 
ties. And  who  can  think  otherwise  ?  What  modern  scholar  can 
honestly  declare  that  he  sees  the  smallest  impurity  in  the  style  of 
Livy  ?  Yet  is  it  not  certain  that,  in  the  style  of  Livy,  PoHiOj^ 
whose  taste  had  been  formed  on  the  banks  of  the  Tiber,  detected 
the  inelegant  idiom  of  the  Po  ?  Has  any  modern  scholar 
understood  Latin  better  than  Frederick  the  Great  ^  understood 
French  ?  Yet  is  it  not  notorious  that  Frederick  the  Great — after 
reading,  speaking,  writing  French,  and  nothing  but  French,  during 
more  than  half  a  century ;  after  unlearning  his  mother  tongue  in 
order  to  learn  French ;  after  living  familiarly  during  many  years 
with  French  associates  —  could  not,  to  the  last,  compose  in  French 
without  imminent  risk  of  committing  some  mistake  which  would 
have  moved  a  smile  in.  the  Hterary  circles  of  Paris?  Do  we 
beheve  that  Erasmus  ^  and  Fracastorius  ^  wrote  Latin  as  well  as 
Dr.  Robertson  ^  and  Sir  Walter  Scott  '^  wrote  English  ?     And  are 

1  The  age  of  the  first-  Roman  emperor,  Augustus  (63  B.C.-A.D.  14),  in 
which  the  poets  Horace,  Virgil,  Ovid,  and  others  flourished. 

2  A  Roman  orator,  poet,  and  historian,  a  friend  of  Virgil. 

3  King  of  Prussia  (b.  1712;  d.  1786). 

4  An  eminent  scholar  (1467-1536),  born  at  Rotterdam,  who  spent  many 
years  in  France,  Italy,  and  the  Netherlands,  in  teaching  and  study. 

5  A  learned  physician   and  poet,   author  of  many  medical  and  poetical 
works  (b.  1483;  d.  1553). 

6  Dr.  William  Robertson  (1721-93),  a  British  historian,  author,  among 
other  works,  of  a  History  of  Charles  V.  and  a  History  of  America. 

"*  Author  of  Waverley  Novels,  Lady  of  the  Lake,  etc.  fb.  1771 ;  d.  1832). 


THE   LIFE   AND    WRITINGS    OF  ADDISON  39 

there  not  in  the  '*  Dissertation  on  India,"  the  last  of  Dr.  Robert- 
son's works,  in  '*  Waverley,"  in  "  Marmion,"  Scotticisms  at  which 
a  London  apprentice  would  laugh  ?  But  does  it  follow,  because 
we  think  thus,  that  we  can  find  nothing  to  admire  in  the  noble 
alcaics  ^  of  Gray ,2  or  in  the  playful  elegiacs  of  Vincent  Bourne  ?  ^ 
Surely  not.  Nor  was  Boileau  so  ignorant  or  tasteless  as  to  be 
incapable  of  appreciating  good  modern  Latin.  In  the  very  letter 
to  which  Johnson  alludes,  Boileau  says,  *'  Ne  croyez  pas  pourtant 
que  je  veuille  par  la  blamer  les  vers  Latins  que  vous  m'avez  en- 
voyes  d'un  de  vos  illustres  academiciens.  Je  les  ai  trouves  fort 
beaux,  et  dignes  de  Vida  et  de  Sannazar,^  mais  non  pas  d' Horace 
et  de  Virgile."  ^  Several  poems  in  modern  Latin  have  been  praised 
by  Boileau  quite  as  liberally  as  it  was  his  habit  to  praise  anything. 
He  says,  for  example,  of  the  Pere  Fraguier's^  epigrams,  that 
Catullus  seems  to  have  come  to  hfe  again.  But  the  best  proof 
that  Boileau  did  not  feel  the  undiscerning  contempt  for  modern 
Latin  verses  which  has  been  imputed  to  him,  is,  that  he  wrote 
and  pubhshed  Latin  verses  in  several  meters.  Indeed  it  hap- 
pens, curiously  enough,  that  the  most  severe  censure  ever  pro- 
nounced by  him  on  modern  Latin  is  conveyed  in  Latin  hexam- 
eters.    We  allude  to  the  fragment  which  begins:  — 

1  One  of  the  most  beautiful  and  melodious  of  the  ancient  lyric  meters  ;  so 
called  from  Alcseus,  a  Greek  poet  (about  600  B.C.),  who  invented  it. 

2  Thomas  Gray  (i  716-71),  an  English  poet  and  scholar.  His  Elegy 
written  in  a  Country  Churchyard,  and  other  poems,  give  him  high  rank 
among  English  writers. 

3  An  accomplished  English  scholar  (1695-1747),  who  wrote  entirely  in 
Latin  verse. 

*  Vida  (b.  1566)  and  Sannazar  (1468-1532)  were  both  writers  of  Latin 
verses.  The  latter,  an  Italian  poet  of  Spanish  descent,  is  best  known  for  his 
Arcadia,  a  medley  of  prose  and  verse. 

5  "  Do  not  think,  however,  that  I  mean  by  that  to  find  fault  with  the  Latin 
verses  of  one  of  your  illustrious  academicians  which  you  have  sent  me.  I 
have  found  them  very  beautiful,  and  worthy  of  Vida  and  of  Sannazar,  but  not 
of  Horace  and  of  Virgil." 

6  A  French  Jesuit  (i 666-1 728),  who  wrote  numerous  Latin  poems, 
etc. 


40  MA  CAUL  AY. 

*'  Quid  numeris  iterum  me  balbutire  Latinis, 
Longe  Alpes  citra  natum  de  patre  Sicambro, 
Musa,  jubes  ?  "  ^ 

For  these  reasons  we  feel  assured  that  the  praise  which  Boi- 
leau  bestowed  on  the  Machince  Gesticulanies'^  and  the  Gerano- 
PygmcBomachia^  was  sincere.  He  certainly  opened  himself  to 
Addison  with  a  freedom  which  was  a  sure  indication  of  esteem. 
Literature  was  the  chief  subject  of  conversation.  The  old  man 
talked  on  his  favorite  theme  much  and  well,  indeed,  as  his  young 
hearer  thought,  incomparably  well.  Boileau  had  undoubtedly 
some  of  the  qualities  of  a  great  critic.  He  wanted  imagination ; 
but  he  had  strong  sense.  His  literary  code  was  formed  on  narrow 
principles;  but  in  applying  it  he  showed  great  judgment  and 
penetration.  In  mere  style,  abstracted  from  the  ideas  of  which 
style  is  the  garb,  his  taste  is  excellent.  He  was  well  acquainted 
with  the  great  Greek  writers ;  and,  though  unable  fully  to  ap- 
preciate their  creative  genius,  admired  the  majestic  simphcity  of 
their  manner,  and  had  learned  from  them  to  despise  bombast  and 
tinsel.  It  is  easy,  we  think,  to  discover  in  the  "  Spectator  "  and 
the  ''  Guardian,"  traces  of  the  influence,  in  part  salutary  and  in 
part  pernicious,  which  the  mind  of  Boileau  had  on  the  mind  of 
Addison. 

While  Addison  was  at  Paris,  an  event  took  place  which  made 
that  capital  a  disagreeable  residence  for  an  Englishman  and  a 
Whig.  Charles,  second  of  the  name,  King  of  Spain,  died,  and 
bequeathed  his  dominions  to  Philip,  Duke  of  Anjou,  a  younger 
son  of  the  Dauphin.^  The  King  of  France,  in  direct  violation 
of  his  engagements  both  with  Great  Britain  and  with  the  States 

1  **  Why,  Muse,  do  you  order  me,  born  far  on  this  side  of  the  Alps,  of  a 
Sicambrian  father,  again  to  lisp  in  Latin  numbers?  " 

2  Puppet  shows. 

3  The  Battle  of  the  Pygmies  and  the  Cranes. 

^  The  Dauphin  was  the  title  borne  by  the  heir  apparent  to  the  throne  of 
France.  It  was  originally  held  by  the  counts  of  Vienne,  in  the  province  of 
Dauphin^o 


THE   LIFE  AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON  41 

General,!  accepted  the  bequest  on  behalf  of  his  grandson.  The 
house  of  Bourbon  2  was  at  the  summit  of  human  grandeur.  Eng- 
land had  been  outwitted,  and  found  herself  in  a  situation  at  once 
degrading  and  perilous.  The  people  of  France,  not  presaging 
the  calamities  by  which  they  were  destined  to  expiate  the  perfidy 
of  their  sovereign,  went  mad  with  pride  and  delight.  Every  man 
looked  as  if  a  great  estate  had  just  been  left  him.  *'  The  French 
conversation,"  said  Addison,  *'  begins  to  grow  insupportable  ;  that 
which  was  before  the  vainest  nation  in  the  world  is  now  worse 
than  ever."  Sick  of  the  arrogant  exultation  of  the  Parisians,  and 
probably  foreseeing  that  the  peace  between  France  and  England 
could  not  be  of  long  duration,  he  set  off  for  Italy. 

In  December,  1700,  he  embarked  at  Marseilles.  As  he  glided 
along  the  Ligurian  ^  coast,  he  was  delighted  by  the  sight  of 
myrtles  and  olive  trees,  which  retained  their  verdure  under  the 
winter  solstice.  Soon,  however,  he  encountered  one  of  the  black 
storms  of  the  Mediterranean.  The  captain  of  the  ship  gave  up 
all  for  lost,  and  confessed  himself  to  a  capuchin  who  happened 
to  be  on  board.  The  English  heretic,  in  the  mean  time,  fortified 
himself  against  the  terrors  of  death  with  devotions  of  a  very 
different  kind.  How  strong  an  impression  this  perilous  voyage 
made  on  him  appears  from  the  ode,  ''How  are  thy  servants  blest, 
O  Lord  ! "  which  was  long  after  published  in  the  ''  Spectator." 
After  some  days  of  discomfort  and  danger,  Addison  was  glad  to 
land  at  Savona,^  and  to  make  his  way,  over  mountains  where  no 
road  had  yet  been  hewn  out  by  art,  to  the  city  of  Genoa. 

At  Genoa,  still  ruled  by  her  own   doge   and  by  the  nobles 

1  States  General  was  the  title  borne  by  the  representatives  of  the  provinces 
of  the  Netherlands,  who  met  at  the  Hague  from  1593  to  1795. 

2  An  illustrious  French  family,  which  for  centuries  was  the  greatest  dynas- 
tic power  in  Europe.  Henry  IV.  (1553-1610)  was  the  first  Bourbon  sover- 
eign in  France ;  and  the  line  ceased  to  reign  with  the  abdication  of  Louis 
Philippe  in  1848. 

3  The  coast  of  the  province  of  Genoa ;  so  called  from  its  ancient  inhabitants, 
the  Ligures. 

*  A  seaport  town  of  Italy,  about  twenty  miles  from  Genoa. 


42  MACAULAY. 

whose  names  were  inscribed  on  her  Book  of  Gold,i  Addison  made 
a  short  stay.  He  admired  the  narrow  streets  overhung  by  long 
lines  of  towering  palaces,  the  walls  rich  with  frescoes,  the  gor- 
geous temple  of  the  Annunciation,  and  the  tapestries  whereon 
were  recorded  the  long  glories  of  the  house  of  Doria.2  Thence 
he  hastened  to  Milan,  where  he  contemplated  the  Gothic  mag- 
nificence of  the  cathedral  with  more  wonder  than  pleasure.  He 
passed  Lake  Benacus  ^  while  a  gale  was  blowing,  and  saw  the 
waves  raging  as  they  raged  when  Virgil  looked  upon  them.  At 
Venice,  then  the  gayest  city  in  Europe,  the  traveler  spent  the 
Carnival,^  the  gayest  season  of  the  year,  in  the  midst  of  masques, 
dances,  and  serenades.  Here  he  was  at  once  diverted  and  pro- 
voked by  the  absurd  dramatic  pieces  which  then  disgraced  the 
Italian  stage.  To  one  of  those  pieces,  however,  he  was  indebted 
for  a  valuable  hint.  He  was  present  when  a  ridiculous  play  on 
the  death  of  Cato  was  performed.  Cato,  it  seems,  was  in  love 
with  the  daughter  of  Scipio.  The  lady  had  given  her  heart  to 
Csesar.  The  rejected  lover  determined  to  destroy  himself.  He 
appeared  seated  in  his  library,  a  dagger  in  his  hand,  a  Plutarch  ^ 
and  a  Tasso  before  him ;  and  in  this  position  he  pronounced  a 
soliloquy  before  he  struck  the  blow.  We  are  surprised  that  so 
remarkable  a  circumstance  as  this  should  have  escaped  the  notice 
of  all  Addison's  biographers.  There  cannot,  we  conceive,  be 
the  smallest  doubt  that  this  scene,  in  spite  of  its  absurdities  and 

1  The  doge  was  the  title  of  the  chief  magistrate  in  the  old  Italian  republics 
of  Venice  and  Genoa.  The  Libra  cf  Oro  (the  Book  of  Gold)  was  the  book  of 
the  nobility  in  Venice  and  Genoa. 

2  An  illustrious  family  of  Genoa,  the  chief  of  whom  were  distinguished  in 
the  wars  of  the  republic. 

3  Now  Lago  di  Garda,  the  largest  of  the  Italian  lakes,  thirty-eight  miles 
long,  and  twelve  miles  broad  at  its  southern  extremity.  It  is  the  source  of 
the  River  Mincio. 

4  The  season  of  indulgence  allowed  by  the  Catholic  Church  before  Lent 
sets  in. 

5  Plutarch's  Parallel  Lives  of  Eminent  Greeks  and  Romans,  written  in  the 
first  century. 


THE   LIFE  AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON.  43 

anachronisms,  struck  the  traveler's  imagination,  and  suggested  to 
him  the  thought  of  bringing  **  Cato  "  on  the  Enghsh  stage.  It  is 
well  known  that  about  this  time  he  began  his  tragedy,^  and  that 
he  finished  the  first  four  acts  before  he  returned  to  England. 

On  his  way  from  Venice  to  Rome,  he  was  drawn  some  miles 
out  of  the  beaten  road  by  a  wish  to  see  the  smallest  independent 
state  in  Europe.  On  a  rock  where  the  snow  still  lay,  though  the 
Italian  spring  was  now  far  advanced,  was  perched  the  little  for- 
tress of  San  Marino. 2  The  roads  which  led  to  the  secluded  town 
were  so  bad,  that  few  travelers  had  ever  visited  it,  and  none  had 
ever  published  an  account  of  it.  Addison  could  not  suppress  a 
good-natured  smile  at  the  simple  manners  and  institutions  of  this 
singular  community ;  but  he  observed,  with  the  exultation  of  a 
Whig,  that  the  rude  mountain  tract  which  formed  the  territory 
of  the  repiiblic  swarmed  with  an  honest,  healthy,  and  contented 
peasantry,  while  the  rich  plain  which  surrounded  the  metropoHs 
of  civil  and  spiritual  tyranny  was  scarcely  less  desolate  than  the 
uncleared  wilds  of  America. 

At  Rome,  Addison  remained  on  his  first  visit  only  long  enough 
to  catch  a  glimpse  of  St.  Peter's  ^  and  of  the  Pantheon.^  His 
haste  is  the  more  extraordinary,  because  the  Holy  Week  ^  was 
close  at  hand.  He  has  given  no  hint  which  can  enable  us  to  pro- 
nounce why  he  chose  to  fly  from  a  spectacle  wliich  every  3^ear 
allures  from  distant  regions  persons  of  far  less  taste  and  sensibil- 

1  Of  Cato      (see  Note  2,  p.  88). 

2  This,  the  smallest  and  one  of  the  most  ancient  states  in  Europe,  is  sit- 
uated in  Central  Italy,  on  a  plateau  two  thousand  feet  in  height,  with  an  area 
of  only  twenty-seven  square  miles.     The  government  is  a  republic. 

3  St.  Peter's  at  Rome,  the  largest  cathedral  in  Christendom,  the  founda- 
tion of  which  was  laid  in  1406.  It  is  613  feet  long,  450  feet  across  the  tran- 
septs, and  435  feet  from  the  pavement  to  the  top  of  the  cross. 

4  One  of  the  most  magnificent  temples  of  ancient  Rome,  and  the  only  one 
of  its  splendid  fanes  that  has  come  down  to  us  uninjured.  It  was  built  by 
Agrippa,  and  dedicated  to  all  the  gods,  as  its  name  implies.  It  has  been  con- 
verted into  a  Christian  church. 

5  The  last  week  in  Lent. 


44  MACAULAY. 

ity  than  his.  Possibly,  travehng,  as  he  did,  at  the  charge  of  a 
government  distinguished  by  its  enmity  to  the  Church  of  Rome, 
he  may  have  thought  that  it  would  be  imprudent  in  him  to  assist 
at  the  most  magnificent  rite  of  that  Church.  Many  eyes  would 
be  upon  him,  and  he  might  find  it  difficult  to  behave  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  give  offense  neither  to  his  patrons  in  England  nor 
to  those  among'  whom  he  resided.  Whatever  his  motives  may 
have  been,  he  turned  his  back  on  the  most  august  and  affecting 
ceremony  which  is  known  among  men,  and  posted  along  the 
Appian  Wayi  to  Naples. 

Naples  was  then  destitute  of  what  are  now,  perhaps,  its  chief 
attractions.  The  lovely  bay  and  the  awful  mountain  were  indeed 
there ;  but  a  farmhouse  stood  on  the  theater  of  Herculaneum, 
and  rows  of  vines  grew  over  the  streets  of  Pompeii.^  The 
temples  of  Psestum  ^  had  not,  indeed,  been  hidden  from  the  eye 
of  man  by  any  great  convulsion  of  nature ;  but,  strange  to  say, 
their  existence  was  a  secret  even  to  artists  and  antiquaries.  Though 
situated  within  a  few  hours'  journey  of  a  great  capital,  where 
Salvator  ^  had  not  long  before  painted,  and  where  Vico  ^  was  then 
lecturing,  those  noble  remains  were  as  little  known  to  Europe 
as  the  ruined  cities  overgrown  by  the  forests  of  Yucatan.  What 
was  to  be  seen  at  Naples,  Addison  saw.  He  climbed  Vesuvius, 
explored  the  tiinnel  of  Posilipo,^  and  wandered  among  the  vines 

1  The  oldest  and  most  celebrated  of  all  the  ancient  Roman  roads. 

2  Herculaneum  and  Pompeii,  cities  of  ancient  Italy,  near  Naples,  were 
completely  buried  under  showers  of  ashes  by  an  eruption  of  Mount  Vesuvius, 
A.D.  79.  Herculaneum  was  discovered  by  an  accident  in  17 13,  and  Pompeii 
in  1750.  Many  streets,  temples,  and  precious  works  of  art,  have  been 
exhumed  from  the  two  cities. 

3  An  ancient  city  of  Italy,  and  a  place  of  importance  and  great  beauty  in 
the  time  of  the  Romans. 

*  Salvator  Rosa  (1615-73),  a  celebrated  painter,  who  painted  directly  from 
nature,  and  delighted  in  scenes  of  gloomy  grandeur  and  magnificence, 

5'  An  Italian  philosopher  (1668-1744),  author  of  a  philosophy  of  history, 
which  anticipated  the  speculations  of  many  eminent  writers  of  recent  times. 

6  A  promontory  in  the  Bay  of  Naples,  through  which  a  tunnel  was  con 
structed  in  ancient  times,  probably  by  Agrippa,  27  B.C. 


THE  LIFE  AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON,  45 

and  almond  trees  of  Capreae.^  But  neither  the  wonders  of  nature, 
nor  those  of  art,  could  so  occupy  his  attention  as  to  prevent 
him  from  noticing,  though  cursorily,  the  abuses  of  the  government 
and  the  misery  of  the  people.  The  great  kingdom  which  had 
just  descended  to  Philip  V.  was  in  a  state  of  paralytic  dotage. 
Even  Castile  and  Aragon^  were  sunk  in  wretchedness.  Yet, 
compared  with  the  ItaHan  dependencies  of  the  Spanish  Crown, 
Castile  and  Aragon  might  be  called  prosperous.  It  is  clear  that 
all  the  observations  which  Addison  made  in  Italy  tended  to 
confirm  him  in  the  poHtical  opinions  which  he  had  adopted  at 
home.  To  the  last  he  always  spoke  of  foreign  travel  as  the 
best  cure  for  Jacobitism.^  In  his  ''  Freeholder,"  ^  the  Tory  ^  fox 
hunter  asks  what  traveling  is  good  for,  except  to  teach  a  man 
to  jabber  French  and  to  talk  against  passive  obedience. 
'^From  Naples,  Addison  returned  to  Rome  by  sea,  along  the 
coast  which  his  favorite  Virgil  had  celebrated.  The  felucca  ^ 
passed  the  headland  where  the  oar  and  trumpet  were  placed  by 
the  Trojan  adventurers  ^  on  the  tomb  of  Misenus,  and  anchored 
at  night  under  the  shelter  of  the  fabled  promontory  of  Circe.^ 
The  voyage  ended  in  the  Tiber,  still  overhung  with  dark  verdure, 

1  Modern  Capri,  a  beautiful  island  in  the  Mediterranean,  facing  the  city  of 
Naples,  the  residence  for  a  long  time  of  the  Roman  Emperor  Tiberius. 

2  The  principal  states  of  Spain. 

3  The  Jacobites  (from  Latin  Jacobus^  James)  were  the  party  which  adhered 
to  James  II.  after  the  Revolution  of  i688,  and  sought  to  restore  his  family  to 
the  English  throne. 

*  A  political  and  literary  paper  in  the  style  of  the  Spectator,  published  foi 
a  short  time  by  Addison  in  171 5- 

^  The  name  originally  given  to  that  party  in  England  adhering  to  the 
ancient  constitution  of  the  monarchy  and  to  the  apostolical  hierarchy. 

6  A  vessel  with  oars  and  lateen  sails,  used  in  the  Mediterranean. 

7  The  survivors  of  the  siege^of  Troy,  who  were  led  by  ^neas,  the  hero  of 
Virgil's  ^neid.  Misenus  was  the  trumpeter,  and  his  tomb  was  said  to  be  on 
the  promontory  of  Misenum,  now  Capo  di  Miseno,  on  the  Bay  of  Naples. 

8  Monte  Circeio,  a  rocky  promontory  on  the  seacoast  near  Terracina  in 
Italy,  at  one  time  supposed  to  be  an  fsland,  and  the  abode  of  Circe  the 
sorceress. 


46  MACAU  LAY. 

and  still  turbid  with  yellow  sand,  as  when  it  met  the  eyes  of 
^neas.  From  the  ruined  port  of  Ostia  the  stranger  hurried  to 
Rome,  and  at  Rome  he  remained  during  those  hot  and  sickly 
months,  when,  even  in  the  Augustan  age,  all  who  could  make 
their  escape  fled  from  mad  dogs  and  from  streets  black  with 
funerals,  to  gather  the  first  figs  of  the  season  in  the  country. 
It  is  probable  that  when  he,  long  after,  poured  forth  in  verse 
his  gratitude  to  the  Providence  which  had  enabled  him  to 
breathe  unhurt  in  tainted  air,  he  was  thinking  of  the  August  and 
September  which  he  passed  at  Rome. 

It  was  not  till  the  tatter  end  of  October  that  he  tore  himself 
away  from  the  masterpieces  of  ancient  and  modern  art  which  are 
collected  in  the  city  so  long  the  mistress  of  the  world.  He  then 
journeyed  northward,  passed  through  Sienna,^  and  for  a  moment 
forgot  his  prejudices  in  favor  of  classic  architecture  as  he  looked 
on  the  magnificent  cathedral.  At  Florence  he  spent  some  days 
with  the  Duke  of  Shrewsbury,  who  —  cloyed  with  the  pleasures  of 
ambition,  and  impatient  of  its  pains  ;  fearing  both  parties,  and  lov- 
ing neither — had  determined  to  hide  in  an  Itahan  retreat  talents 
and  accomphshments,  which,  if  they  had  been  united  with  fixed 
principles  and  civil  courage,  might  have  made  him  the  foremost 
man  of  his  age.  These  days,  we  are  told,  passed  pleasandy,  and 
we  can  easily  believe  it ;  for  Addison  was  a  delightful  compan- 
ion when  he  was  at  his  ease ;  and  the  duke,  though  he  seldom 
forgot  that  he  was  a  Talbot,  had  the  invaluable  art  of  putting  at 
ease  all  who  came  near  him. 

Addison  gave  some  time  to  Florence,  and  especially  to  the 
sculptures  in  the  Museum,  which  he  preferred  even  to  those  of 
the  Vatican.2     He  then  pursued  his  journey  through  a  country 

1  Situated  on  the  road  from  Florence  to  Rome,  and  noted  for  its  superb 
churches,  palaces,  and  public  monuments. 

2  The  residence  of  the  Pope  in  Rome,  the  largest  structure  of  the  kind  in 
the  world,  comprising  the  private  gardens  and  apartments  of  the  Pope,  recep- 
tion halls,  chapels,  libraries,  picture  galleries,  and  vast  museums  of  ancient 
sculptures  and  other  antiquities. 


THE   LIFE   AND    VVRiriNGS   OF  ADDISON.  ^j 

in  which  the  ravages  of  the  last  war  were  still  discernible,  and  in 
which  all  men  were  looking  forward  with  dread  to  a  still  fiercer 
conflict.  Eugene  ^  had  already  descended  from  the  Rhsetian 
Alps  to  dispute  with  Catinat'*^  the  rich  plain  of  Lombardy.  The 
faithless  ruler  of  Savoy  ^  was  still  reckoned  among  the  alHes  of 
Louis.  England  had  not  yet  actually  declared  war  against 
France;  but  Manchester ^  had  left  Paris;  and  the  negotiations 
which  produced  the  Grand  AHiance  ^  against  the  house  of  Bour- 
bon were  in  progress.  Under  such  circumstances,  it  was  desirable 
for  an  English  traveler  to  reach  neutral  ground  without  delay. 
Addison  resolved  to  cross  Mont  Cenis.^  It  was  December ;  and 
the  road  was  very  different  from  that  which  now  reminds  the 
stranger  of  the  power  and  genius  of  Napoleon.  The  winter,  how- 
ever, was  mild ;  and  the  passage  Avas,  for  those  times,  easy.  To 
this  journey  Addison  alluded,  when,  in  the  ode  which  we  have 
already  quoted,  he  said  that  for  him  the  Divine  Goodness  had 
warmed  the  hoary  Alpine  hills. 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  the  eternal  snow  that  he  composed  his 
*^  Epistle "  to  his  friend  Montague,  now  Lord  Halifax.  That 
"  Epistle,"  once  widely  renowned,  is  now  known  only  to  curious 
readers,  and  will  hardly  be  considered  by  those  to  whom  it  is 
known  as  in  any  perceptible  degree  heightening  Addison's  fame. 

1  Prince  Eugene  (1663- 1736),  a  distinguished  military  chieftain  who  en- 
tered the  service  of  the  German  Emperor  as  a  volunteer  against  the  Turks, 
was  speedily  promoted,  and  placed  in  command  of  the  army  of  Hungary,  was 
associated  with  the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  and  took  part  in  the  victories  of 
Blenheim,  Oudenarde,  and  others. 

2  A  French  marshal,  who  was  commander  of  the  army  in  Italy  against 
Prince  Eugene,  but  was  forced  to  retreat,  which  caused  his  disgrace  and  his 
retirement. 

3  Victor  Amadeus  II.  (1665-1732),  Duke  of  Savoy,  and  first  King  of 
Sardinia. 

*  Charles  Montague,  fourth  Earl  of  Manchester,  espoused  the  cause  of  the 
Prince  of  Orange,  William  III.,  and  was  sent  ambassador  to  France  in  1699. 

5  The  Grand  Alliance  was  formed  between  the  Emperor  of  Germany,  Eng- 
land, and  the  States  of  Holland,  by  a  treaty  signed  Sept.  7,  1701. 

6  A  mountain  pass  in  the  Alps,  6,775  f^^t  above  the  level  of  the  sea. 


.i8  MACAU  LAY. 

It  is,  however,  decidedly  superior  to  any  English  composition 
which  he  had  previously  published.  Nay,  we  think  it  quite  as 
good  as  any  poem  in  heroic  meter  which  appeared  during  the 
interval  between  the  death  of  Dryden  and  the  publication  of 
the  ''  Essay  on  Criticism."  i  It  contains  passages  as  good  as  the 
second-rate  passages  of  Pope,  and  would  have  added  to  the 
reputation  of  Parnell  or  Prior. 

But,  whatever  be  the  literary  merits  or  defects  of  the  *'  Epistle," 
it  undoubtedly  does  honor  to  the  principles  and  spirit  of  the  au- 
thor. Halifax  had  now  nothing  to  give.  He  had  fallen  from 
power,  had  been  held  up  to  obloquy,  had  been  impeached  by  the 
House  of  Commons,  and,  though  his  peers  had  dismissed  the  im- 
peachment, had,  as  it  seemed,  little  chance  of  ever  again  filling 
high  office.  The  ''  Epistle,"  written  at  such  a  time,  is  one  among 
many  proofs  that  there  was  no  mixture  of  cowardice  or  meanness 
in  the  suavity  and  moderation  which  distinguished  Addison  from 
all  the  other  pubhc  men  of  those  stormy  times. 

At  Geneva  the  traveler  learned  that  a  partial  change  of  minis- 
try had  taken  place  in  England,  and  that  the  Earl  of  Manchester 
had  become  secretary  of  state.  Manchester  exerted  himself  to 
serve  his  young  friend.  It  was  thought  advisable  that  an  Eng- 
lish agent  should  be  near  the  person  of  Eugene  in  Italy ;  and 
Addison,  whose  diplomatic  education  was  now  finished,  was  the 
man  selected.  He  was  preparing  to  enter  on  his  honorable 
functions  when  all  his  prospects  were  for  a  time  darkened  by 
the  death  of  Wilham  III. 

Anne  had  long  felt  a  strong  aversion — personal,  poHtical,  and 
religious — to  the  Whig  party.  That  aversion  appeared  in  the  first 
measures  of  her  reign.  Manchester  was  deprived  of  the  seals 
after  he  had  held  them  only  a  few  weeks.  Neither  Somers  nor 
Halifax  was  sworn  of  the  Privy  Council.^     Addison  shared  the 

1  A  poem  written  by  Pope  in  1709,  in  his  twenty-first  year. 

2  An  assembly  of  state  advisers  unlimited  as  to  number,  and  appointed  by 
the  sovereign ;  the  sole  qualification  being,  that  the  members  be  native-born 
subjects  of  Great  Britain. 


THE  LIFE  AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON  49 

fate  of  his  three  patrons.  His  hopes  of  employment  in  the  pub- 
He  service  were  at  an  end ;  his  pension  was  stopped ;  and  it  was 
necessary  for  him  to  support  himself  by  his  own  exertions.  He 
became  tutor  to  a  young  English  traveler,  and  appears  to  have 
rambled  with  his  pupil  over  great  part  of  Switzerland  and  Ger- 
many. At  this  time  he  wrote  his  pleasing  treatise  on  medals. 
It  was  not  published  dll  after  his  death ;  but  several  distinguished 
scholars  saw  the  manuscript,  and  gave  just  praise  to  the  grace 
of  the  style  and  to  the  learning  and  ingenuity  evinced  by  the 
quotations. 

From  Germany,  Addison  repaired  to  Holland,  where  he  learned 
the  melancholy  news  of  his  father's  death.  After  passing  some 
months  in  the  United  Provinces,^  he  returned,  about  the  close  of 
the  year  1703,  to  England.  He  was  there  cordially  received  by 
his  friends,  and  introduced  by  them  into  the  Kit  Cat  Club,  a 
society  in  which  were  collected  all  the  various  talents  and  accom- 
plishments which  then  gave  luster  to  the  Whig  party. 

Addison  was,  during  some  months  after  his  return  from  the 
Continent,  hard  pressed  by  pecuniary  difficulties ;  but  it  was  soon 
in  the  power  of  his  noble  patrons  to  serve  him  effectually.  A 
poHtical  change — silent  and  gradual,  but  of  the  highest  impor- 
tance— was  in  daily  progress.  The  accession  of  Anne  had  been 
hailed  by  the  Tories  with  transports  of  joy  and  hope ;  and  for  a 
time  it  seemed  that  the  Whigs  had  fallen  never  to  rise  again. 
The  throne  was  surrounded  by  men  supposed  to  be  attached  to 
the  prerogative  and  to  the  Church  ;  and  among  these  none  stood 
so  high  in  the  favor  of  the  sovereign  as  the  Lord  Treasurer 
Godolphin  2  and  the  Captain  General  Marlborough.^ 

1  The  States  of  Holland. 

2  Sidney,  Earl  of  Godolphin  (1645-1712),  commissioner  of  the  treasury 
under  William  III.  and  lord  high  treasurer  to  Queen  Anne.  He  was  dis- 
tinguished for  his  ability,  sagacity,  and  administrative  talents. 

3  John  Churchill,  Duke  of  Marlborough  (1650-1722),  one  of  the  greatest 
of  English  generals.  He  entered  military  service  under  Charles  II.,  but  at  the 
Revolution  of  1688  gave  in  his  adhesion  to  William,  Prince  of  Orange,  and 

4 


50  MAC  AULA  Y. 

The  country  gentlemen  and  country  clergymen  had  fully  ex- 
pected that  the  policy  of  these  ministers  would  be  directly 
opposed  to  that  which  had  been  almost  constantly  followed  by 
WilHam ;  that  the  landed  interest  would  be  favored  at  the 
expense  of  trade ;  that  no  addition  would  be  made  to  the  funded 
debt ;  that  the  privileges  conceded  to  Dissenters  ^  by  the  late  King 
would  be  curtailed,  if  not  withdrawn ;  that  ^the  war  with  France, 
if  there  must  be  such  a  war,  would,  on  our  part,  be  almost 
entirely  naval ;  and  that  the  government  would  avoid  close  con- 
nections with  foreign  powers,  and,  above  all,  with  Holland. 

But  the  country  gentlemen  and  country  clergymen  were 
fated  to  be  deceived,  not  for  the  last  time.  The  prejudices  and 
passions  which  raged  without  control  in  vicarages,  in  cathedral 
closes,  and  in  the  manor  houses  of  foxhunting  squires,  were  not 
shared  by  the  chiefs  of  the  ministry.  Those  statesmen  saw  that 
it  was  both  for  the  public  interest  and  for  their  own  interest  to 
adopt  a  Whig  pohcy,  at  least  as  respected  the  alliances  of  the 
country  and  the  conduct  of  the  war.  But,  if  the  foreign  pohcy 
of  the  Whigs  were  adopted,  it  was  impossible  to  abstain  from 
adopting,  also,  their  financial  policy.  The  natural  consequences 
followed.  The  rigid  Tories  were  ahenated  from  the  government. 
The  votes  of  the  Whigs  became  necessary  to  it.  The  votes  of 
the  Whigs  could  be  secured  only  by  further  concessions ;  and 
further  concessions  the  Queen  was  induced  to  make. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  year  1704,  the  state  of  parties  bore  a 
close  analogy  to  the  state  of  parties  in  1826.  In  1826,  as. in 
1704,  there  was  a  Tory  ministry  divided  into  two  hostile  sections. 
The  position  of  Mr.   Canning  2  and  his  friends  in   1826  corre- 

was  placed  in  command  of  the  English  forces  in  the  Netherlands,  but,  on  sus- 
picion of  correspondence  with  James  II.,  was  for  a  time  in  disgrace,  and 
deprived  of  his  command,  which  was  subsequently  restored  to  him  when  he 
entered  upon  that  brilliant  military  career  which  established.his  reputation. 

1  Those  who  separated  from  the  doctrines  and  ritual  of  the  Established  or 
State  Church. 

2  George  Canning  (1770-1827),  a  British  orator  and  statesman,  prominent 
in  the  political  complications  during  the  wars  with  Napoleon. 


THE  LIFE  AND    WRITINGS  OF  ADDISON.  51 

sponded  to  that  which  Marlborough  and  Godolphin  occupied  in 
1 704.  Nottingham  and  Jersey  were,  in  1 704,  what  Lord  Eldon  1 
and  Lord  Westmoreland  were  in  1826.  The  Whigs  of  1704 
were  in  a  situation  resembling  that  in  which  the  Whigs  of  1826 
stood.  In  1704,  Somers,  Hahfax,  Sunderland,  Cowper,'^  were 
not  in  office.  There  was  no  avowed  coalition  between  them  and 
the  moderate  Tories.  It  is  probable  that  no  direct  communica- 
tion tending  to  such  a  coahtion  had  yet  taken  place ;  yet  all  men 
saw  that  such  a  coalition  was  inevitable,  nay,  that  it  was  already 
half  formed.  Such,  or  nearly  such,  was  the  state  of  things  when 
tidings  arrived  of  the  great  battle  fought  at  Blenheim  ^  on  the 
13th  of  August,  1704.  By  the  Whigs  the  news  was  hailed  with 
transports  of  joy  and  pride.  No  fault,  no  cause  of  quarrel,  could 
be  remembered  by  them  against  the  commander  whose  genius 
had  in  one  day  changed  the  face  of  Europe,  saved  the  imperial 
throne,^  humbled  the  house  of  Bourbon,  and  secured  the  Act 
of  Settlement^  against  foreign  hostihty.  The  feeling  of  the 
Tories  was  very  different.  They  could  not,  indeed,  without  im- 
prudence, openly  express  regret  at  an  event  so  glorious  to  their 
country ;  but  their  congratulations  were  so  cold  and  sullen  as  to 
give  deep  disgust  to  the  victorious  general  and  his  friends. 

Godolphin  was  not  a  reading  man.  Whatever  time  he  could 
spare  from  business  he  was  in  the  habit  of  spending  at  New- 
market ^  or  at  the  card  table.     But  he  was  not  absolutely  indiffer- 

1  John  Scott  (1 751-1838).  He  was  lord  high  chancellor  from  1801  to 
1827. 

2  William,  Earl  Cowper  (i 664-1 723),  was  lord  high  chancellor  in  1707, 
and  created  earl  in  1718. 

3  A  village  of  Bavaria,  where  Prince  Eugene  and  the  Duke  of  Marl- 
borough defeated  the  French  and  the  Bavarians. 

4  The  throne  of  the  Germanic  Empire,  of  which  Joseph  I.  was  Emperor 
from  1705  to  1 71 1,  and  Charles  VI.  from  171 1  to  1740. 

5  This  act,  passed  in  1701,  fixed  the  succession  to  the  English  throne  in 
Anne  and  in  the  Princess  Sophia,  daughter  of  the  Elector  of  Hanover,  and 
granddaughter  of  James  I. 

6  At  that  time,  the  chief  racing  center  of  England. 


52  MACAULAY. 

ent  to  poetry,  and  he  was  too  intelligent  an  observer  not  to  per- 
ceive that  literature  was  a  formidable  engine  of  political  warfare, 
and  that  the  great  Whig  leaders  had  strengthened  their  party,  and 
raised  their  character,  by  extending  a  liberal  and  judicious  pat- 
ronage to  good  writers.  He  was  mortified,  and  not  without 
reason,  by  the  exceeding  badness  of  the  poems  which  appeared 
in  honor  of  the  battle  of  Blenheim.  One  of  these  poems  has 
been  rescued  from  oblivion  by  the  exquisite  absurdity  of  three 
lines :  — 

'^  Think  of  two  thousand  gentlemen  at  least, 
And  each  man  mounted  on  his  capering  beast ; 
Into  the  Danube  they  were  pushed  by  shoals." 

Where  to  procure  better  verses  the  treasurer  did  not  know. 
He  understood  how  to  negotiate  a  loan,  or  remit  a  subsidy ;  he 
was  also  well  versed  in  the  history  of  running  horses  and  fighting 
cocks ;  but  his  acquaintance  among  the  poets  was  very  small. 
He  consulted  Halifax ;  but  Halifax  affected  to  decline  the  office 
of  adviser.  He  had,  he  said,  done  his  best,  when  he  had  power, 
to  encourage  men  whose  abilities  and  acquirements  might  do 
honor  to  their  country.  Those  times  were  over.  Other  maxims 
had  prevailed.  Merit  was  suffered  to  pine  in  obscurity ;  and  the 
public  money  was  squandered  on  the  undeserving.  "I  do 
know,"  he  added,  ''a  gentleman  who  would  celebrate  the  battle 
in  a  manner  worthy  of  the  subject ;  but  I  will  not  name  him." 
Godolphin,  who  was  expert  at  the  soft  answer  which  turneth 
away  wrath,  and  who  was  under  the  necessity  of  paying  court  to 
the  Whigs,  gently  replied  that  there  was  too  much  ground  for 
Halifax's  complaints,  but  that  what  was  amiss  should  in  time  be 
rectified,  and  that  in  the  mean  time  the  services  of  a  man  such 
as  Halifax  had  described  should  be  liberally  rewarded.  Halifax 
then  mentioned  Addison,  but  mindful  of  the  dignity,  as  well  as 
of  the  pecuniary  interest,  of  his  friend,  insisted  that  the  minister 
should  apply  in  the  most  courteous  manner  to  Addison  himself ; 
and  this  Godolphin  promised  to  do. 


THE  LIFE  AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON,  53 

Addison  then  occupied  a  garret  up  three  pair  of  stairs,  over 
a  small  shop  in  the  Haymarket.^  In  this  humble  lodging  he 
was  surprised,  on  the  morning  which  followed  the  conversation 
between  Godolphin  and  HaHfax,  by  a  visit  from  no  less  a  per- 
son than  the  Right  Hon.  Henry  Boyle,  then  chancellor  of  the 
exchequer,  and  afterwards  Lord  Carleton.  This  high-born  min- 
ister had  been  sent  by  the  lord  treasurer  as  ambassador  to  the 
needy  poet.  Addison  readily  undertook  the  proposed  task, — a 
task  which,  to  so  good  a  Whig,  was  probably  a  pleasure.  When 
the  poem  was  little  more  than  half  finished,  he  showed  it  to  Godol- 
phin, who  was  delighted  with  it,  and  particularly  with  the  famous 
simiHtude  of  the  angel.*  Addison  was  instantly  appointed  to  a 
commissionership  worth  about  two  hundred  pounds  a  year,  and 
was  assured  that  this  appointment  was  only  an  earnest  of  greater 
favors. 

The  ''  Campaign  "  came  forth,  and  was  as  much  admired  by 
the  public  as  by  the  minister.  It  pleases  us  less,  on  the  whole, 
than  the  "  Epistle  "  to  HaHfax ;  yet  it  undoubtedly  ranks  high 
among  the  poems  which  appeared  during  the  interval  between 
the  death  of  Dryden  and  the  dawn  of  Pope's  genius.  The  chief 
merit  of  the  "  Campaign,"  we  think,  is  that  which  was  noticed  by 
Johnson,  —  the  manly  and  rational  rejection  of  fiction.  The  first 
great  poet  ^  whose  works  have  come  down  to  us  sang  of  war  long 
before  war  became  a  science  or  a  trade.  If,  in  his  time,  there 
was  enmity  between  two  Httle  Greek  towns,  each  poured  forth  its 
crowd  of  citizens,  ignorant  of  disciphne,  and  armed  with  imple- 
ments of  labor  rudely  turned  into  weapons.  On  each  side  ap- 
peared conspicuous  a  few  chiefs,  whose  wealth  had  enabled  them 
to  procure  good  armor,  horses,  and  chariots,  and  whose  leisure  had 
enabled  them  to  practice  mihtary  exercises.  One  such  chief — 
if  he  were  a  man  of  great  strength,  agility,  and  courage — would 
probably  be  more  formidable  than  twenty  common  men;   and 

1  A  broad  street  in  London  where  carts  filled  with  hay  and  straw  for  sale 
were  formerly  allowed  to  stand. 

2  See  note,  p.  56.  3  Homer. 


54  MAC  AULA  Y. 

the  force  and  dexterity  with  which  he  flung  his  spear  might 
have  no  inconsiderable  share  in  deciding  the  event  of  the  day. 
Such  were  probably  the  battles  with  which  Homer  was  familiar. 
But  Homer  related  the  actions  of  men  of  a  former  generation  ;  of 
men  who  sprang  from  the  gods,  and  communed  with  the  gods 
face  to  face ;  of  men,  one  of  whom  could  with  ease  hurl  rocks 
which  two  sturdy  hinds  of  a  later  period  would  be  unable  even 
to  lift.  He  therefore  naturally  represented  their  martial  ex- 
ploits as  resembling  in  kind,  but  far  surpassing  in  magnitude, 
those  of  the  stoutest  and  most  expert  combatants  of  his  own 
age.  Achilles,!  clad  in  celestial  armor,  drawn  by  celestial  cours- 
ers, grasping  the  spear  which  none  but  himself  could  raise,  driv- 
ing all  Troy  and  Lycia  ^  before  him,  and  choking  Scamander^ 
with  dead,  was  only  a  magnificent  exaggeration  of  the  real  hero, 
who,  strong,  fearless,  accustomed  to  the  use  of  weapons,  guarded 
by  a  shield  and  helmet  of  the  best  Sidonian  ^  fabric,  and  whirled 
along  by  horses  of  Thessalian  ^  breed,  struck  down  with  his  own 
right  arm  foe  after  foe.  In  all  rude  societies  similar  notions  are 
found.  There  are  at  this  day  countries  where  the  Lifeguards- 
man  Shaw  would  be  considered  as  a  much  greater  warrior  than 
the  Duke  of  Wellington.  Bonaparte  loved  to  describe  the  aston- 
ishment with  which  the  Mamelukes^  looked  at  his  diminutive 


1  The  hero  of  Homer's  Iliad,  the  bulwark  of  the  Greeks  in  the  Trojan 
War. 

2  Troy  was  the  chief  city  of  the  Troad,  a  promontory  of  Asia  Minor.  The 
story  of  Troy  was  considered  as  mythical,  for  the  most  part,  until  the  dis- 
coveries of  Schliemann,  in  1870,  apparently  identified  the  city.  The  Lycians 
were  neighbors  and  allies  of  the  Trojans. 

3  A  river  near  Troy. 

4  Sidon,  an  ancient  city  of  Phoenicia,  on  the  Mediterranean,  was  noted  for 
its  manufactures  of  glass,  purple  dye,  and  weapons. 

s  Thessaly,  in  ancient  Greece,  was  famous  for  its  breed  of  horses. 

6  A  body  of  soldiery  composed  chiefly  of  Asiatic  youths  who  were  brought 
into  Egypt  in  the  thirteenth  century,  assassinated  the  Sultan  there,  and  ruled 
over  the  country  for  several  centuries.  They  were  all  massacred  by  Mehemet 
All,  at  Cairo,  in  181 1. 


THE   LIFE   AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON.  55 

figure.  Mourad  Bey,  distinguished  above  all  his  fellows  by  his 
bodily  strength,  and  by  the  skill  with  which  he  managed  his  horse 
and  his  saber,  could  not  beheve  that  a  man  who  was  scarcely  five 
feet  high,  and  rode  like  a  butcher,  could  be  the  greatest  soldier 
in  Europe. 

^  Homer's  descriptions  of  war  had,  therefore,  as  much  truth  as 
poetry  requires.  But  truth  was  altogether  wanting  to  the  per- 
formances of  those  who,  writing  about  battles  which  had  scarcely 
anything  in  common  with  the  battles  of  his  times,  servilely  imi- 
tated his  manner.  The  folly  of  Silius  Italicus,  in  particular,  is 
positively  nauseous.  He  undertook  to  record  in  verse  the  vicis- 
situdes of  a  great  struggle  between  generals  of  the  first  order ; 
and  his  narrative  is  made  up  of  the  hideous  wounds  which  these 
generals  inflicted  with  their  own  hands.  Asdrubal  flings  a  spear 
which  grazes  the  shoulder  of  the  consul  Nero ;  but  Nero  sends 
his  spear  into  Asdrubal's  side.  Fabius  slays  Thuris  and  Butes, 
and  Maris  and  Arses,  and  the  long-haired  Adherbes,  and  the 
gigantic  Thylis,  and  Sapharus  and  Mongesus,  and  the  trumpeter 
Morinus.  Hannibal  runs  Perusinus  through  the  groin  with  a 
stake,  and  breaks  the  backbone  of  Telesinus  with  a  huge  stone. 
This  detestable  fashion  was  copied  in  modern  times,  and  con- 
tinued to  prevail  down  to  the  age  of  Addison.  Several  versifiers 
had  described  WiUiam  turning  thousands  to  flight  by  his  single 
prowess,  and  dyeing  the  Boyne»i  with  Irish  blood.  Nay,  so 
estimable  a  writer  as  John  PhiHps,^  the  author  of  the  "  Splendid 
Shilling,"  represented  Marlborough  as  having  won  the  battle  of 
Blenheim  merely  by  strength  of  muscle  and  skill  in  fence.  The 
following  lines  may  serve  as  an  example :  — 

'^Churchill,  viewing  where 
The  violence  of  Tallard  most  prevailed, 
Came  to  oppose  his  slaughtering  arm.     With  speed 
Precipitate  he  rode,  urging  his  way 

1  The  battle  of  Boyne,  in  Ireland,  between  William  III.  and  James  II., 
was  fought  July  I,  1690,  and  resulted  in  the  defeat  of  the  latter. 

2  1676-1708. 


56  MACAULAY. 

O'er  hills  of  gasping  heroes,  and  fallen  steeds 
Rolling  in  death.     Destruction,  grim  with  blood, 
Attends  his  furious  course.     Around  his  head 
The  glowing  balls  play  innocent,  while  he 
With  dire  impetuous  sway  deals  fatal  blows 
Among  the  flying  Gauls.     In  Gallic  blood 
He  dyes  his  reeking  sword,  and  strews  the  ground 
With  headless  ranks.     What  can  they  do  ?     Or  how 
Withstand  his  wide  destroying  sword?" 

Addison,  with  excellent  sense  and  taste,  departed  from  this 
ridiculous  fashion.  He  reserved  his  praise  for  the  qualities 
which  made  Marlborough  truly  great,  —  energy,  sagacity,  military 
science ;  but,  above  all,  the  poet  extolled  the  firmness  of  that 
mind,  which  in  the  midst  of  confusion,  uproar,  and  slaughter, 
examined  and  disposed  everything  with  the  serene  wisdom  of 
a  higher  intelligence. 

Here  it  was  that  he  introduced  the  famous  comparison  i  of 
Marlborough  to  an  angel  guiding  the  whirlwind.  We  will  not 
dispute  the  general  justice  of  Johnson's  remarks  on  this  passage. 
But  we  must  point  out  one  circumstance  which  appears  to  have 
escaped  all  the  critics.  The  extraordinary  effect  which  this 
simile  produced  when  it  first  appeared,  and  which  to  the  follow- 
ing generation  seemed  inexplicable,  is  doubtless  to  be  chiefly 
attributed  to  a  line  which  most  readers  now  regard  as  a  feeble 
parenthesis: — 

''Such  as,  of  late,  o'er  pale  Britannia  pass'd." 
Addison  spoke,  not  of  a  storm,  but  of  the  storm.     The  great  tem- 

1  The  lines  in  which  this  comparison  occurs  are  as  follows :  — 

"  So  when  an  angel  by  divine  command 
With  rising  tempests  shakes  a  guilty  land, 
Such  as,  of  late,  o'er  pale  Britannia  pass'd, 
Calm  and  serene  he  drives  the  furious  blast ; 
And,  pleased  th'  Almighty's  orders  to  perform. 
Rides  in  the  whirlwind,  and  directs  the  storm." 


THE  LIFE  AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON.  57 

pest  of  November,  1 703  —  the  only  tempest  which  in  our  latitude 
has  equaled  the  rage  of  a  tropical  hurricane  —  had  left  a  dreadful 
recollection  in  the  minds  of  all  men.  No  other  tempest  was  ever, 
in  this  country,  the  occasion  of  a  parliamentary  address  or  of  a 
public  fast.  Whole  fleets  had  been  cast  away.  Large  mansions 
had  been  blown  down.  One  prelate  had  been  buried  beneath 
the  ruins  of  his  palace.  London  and  Bristol  had  presented  the 
appearance  of  cities  just  sacked.  Hundreds  of  famihes  were  still 
in  mourning.  The  prostrate  trunks  of  large  trees,  and  the  ruins 
of  houses,  still  attested,  in  all  the  southern  counties,  the  fury  of 
the  blast.  The  popularity  which  the  simile  of  the  angel  enjoyed 
among  Addison's  contemporaries  has  always  seemed  to  us  to  be 
a  remarkable  instance  of  the  advantage  which,  in  rhetoric  and 
poetry,  the  particular  has  over  the  general. 

Soon  after  the  ''  Campaign,"  was  pubhshed  Addison's  narra- 
tive of  his  travels  in  Italy.  The  first  effect  produced  by  this 
narrative  was  disappointment.  The  crowd  of  readers  who  ex- 
pected pohtics  and  scandal,  speculations  on  the  projects  of 
Victor  Amadeus,^  and  anecdotes  about  the  joHities  of  convents 
and  the  amours  of  cardinals  and  nuns,  were  confounded  by  find- 
ing that  the  writer's  mind  was  much  more  occupied  by  the  war 
between  the  Trojans  and  Rutulians^  than  by  the  war  between 
France  and  Austria ;  and  that  he  seemed  to  have  heard  no  scan- 
dal of  later  date  than  the  gallantries  of  the  Empress  Faustina.^ 
In  time,  however,  the  judgment  of  the  many  was  overruled  by 
that  of  the  few ;  and  before  the  book  was  reprinted  it  was  so 
eagerly  sought  that  it  sold  for  five  times  the  original  price.  It 
is  still  read  with  pleasure.  The  style  is  pure  and  flowing ;  the 
classical  quotations  and  allusions  are  numerous  and  happy ;  and 
we  are  now  and  then  charmed  by  that  singularly  humane  and 

1  See  Note  3,  p.  47. 

2  A  people  of  ancient  Italy,  settled,  according  to  tradition,  in  Latium,  near 
the  seacoast. 

3  The  name  of  two  Roman  ladies,  mother  and  daughter,  remarkable  for 
their  profligacy. 


58  MACAULAY, 

delicate  humor  in  which  Addison  excelled  all  men.  Yet  this 
agreeable  work,  even  when  considered  merely  as  the  history  of  a 
Hterary  tour,  may  justly  be  censured  on  account  of  its  faults  of 
omission.  We  have  already  said  that,  though  rich  in  extracts 
from  the  Latin  poets,  it  contains  scarcely  any  references  to  the 
Latin  orators  and  historians.  We  must  add  that  it  contains  little, 
or  rather  no  information  respecting  the  history  and  literature  of 
modern  Italy.  To  the  best  of  our  remembrance,  Addison  does 
not  mention  Dante,i  Petrarch,^  Boccaccio,^  Boiardo,^  Berni,^ 
Lorenzo  de  Medici,^  or  Machiavelli.'^  He  coldly  tells  us  that  at 
Ferrara  he  saw  the  tomb  of  Ariosto,  and  that  at  Venice  he  heard 
the  gondoliers  sing  verses  of  Tasso.  But  for  Tasso  and  Ariosto 
he  cared  far  less  than  for  Valerius  Flaccus  ^  and  Sidonius  Apol- 
linaris.^  The  gentle  flow  of  the  Ticin  ^^  brings  a  Kne  of  Sihus  ^^  to 
his  mind.  The  sulphurous  steam  of  Albula  suggests  to  him  sev- 
eral passages  of  Martial. ^'^  But  he  has  not  a  word  to  say  of  the 
illustrious  dead  of  Santa  Croce ;  ^^  he  crosses  the  wood  of  Ra- 

1  The  greatest  of  Italian  poets  (i 265-1321),  author  of  the  Divina  Corn- 
media,  in  which  he  describes  his  vision  of  hell,  purgatory,  and  paradise. 

2  An  illustrious  poet  of  Italy  (1304-74),  whose  sonnets  and  lyric  poems 
are  noted  for  their  exquisite  melodies  and  great  delicacy  of  feeling. 

3  A  celebrated  Italian  novelist  (1313-75),  author  of  the  Decameron. 
*  An  Italian  poet  (1434-94),  author  of  the  Orlando  Innamorato. 

5  An  Italian  poet  of  the  sixteenth  century,  whose  style  was  remarkable  for 
its  gracefulness  and  purity. 

6  Styled  the  Magnificent  (1448-92),  the  most  illustrious  of  the  great  Medici 
family  in  Florence. 

7  A  celebrated  Florentin^e  statesman  and  historian  (1469-1527),  infamous 
and  perfidious  in  politics. 

8  A  Roman  poet  of  the  time  of  Vespasian  (A.D.  9-79),  of  whose  life 
nothing  is  known. 

9  A  writer  and  churchman  of  the  fifth  century  A.D. 

10  Properly  Ticino,  a  river  of  Switzerland  and  Northern  Italy,  which  flows 
through  Lake  Maggiore,  and  unites  with  the  Po  near  Pavia. 

11  Silius  Italicus  (see  Note  4,  p.  24). 

12  A  Latin  poet  and  epigrammatist,  born  in  Spain  about  A.D.  40. 

13  The  Church  of  Santa  Croce  in  Florence  contains  the  remains  and  tombs 
of  many  of  the  greatest  men  of  modern  Italy. 


THE  LIFE  AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON,  59 

venna^  without  recollecting  the  Specter  Huntsman,  and  wanders 
up  and  down  Rimini  '-^  without  one  thought  of  Francesca.^  At 
Paris  he  had  eagerly  sought  an  introduction  to  Boileau ;  but  he 
seems  not  to  have  been  at  all  aware  that  at. Florence  he  was  in 
the  vicinity  of  a  poet  with  whom  Boileau  could  not  sustain  a 
comparison,  —  of  the  greatest  lyric  poet  of  modern  times,  Vincen- 
zio  Fihcaja.  This  is  the  more  remarkable  because  Filicaja  was 
the  favorite  poet  of  the  accomplished  Somers,  under  whose  protec- 
tion Addison  traveled,  and  to  whom  the  account  of  the  travels  is 
dedicated.  The  truth  is,  that  Addison  knew  little,  and  cared 
less,  about  the  literature  of  modern  Italy.  His  favorite  models 
were  Latin.  His  favorite  critics  were  French.  Half  the  Tuscan 
poetry  that  he  had  read  seemed  to  him  monstrous,  and  the  other 
half  tawdry. 

His  travels  were  followed  by  the  lively  opera  of  ''  Rosamond." 
This  piece  was  ill  set  to  music,  and  therefore  failed  on  the  stage ; 
but  it  completely  succeeded  in  print,  and  is  indeed  excellent  in 
its  kind.  The  smoothness  with  which  the  verses  glide,  and  the 
elasticity  with  which  they  bound,  is,  to  our  ears  at  least,  very 
pleasing.  We  are  inclined  to  think  that  if  Addison  had  left 
heroic  couplets  to  Pope,  and  blank  verse  to  Rowe,'^  and  had 
employed  himself  in  writing  airy  and  spirited  songs,  his  reputa- 
tion as  a  poet  would  have  stood  far  higher  than  it  now  does. 
Some  years  after  his  death,  "  Rosamond  "  was  set  to  new  music 
by  Dr.  Arne,  and  was  performed  with  complete  success.  Several 
passages  long  retained  their  popularity,  and  were  daily  sung, 
during  the  latter  part  of  the  reign  of  George  H.,  at  all  the  harp- 
sichords in  England. 

While  Addison  thus  amused  him.self,  his  prospects  and    the 

1  An  ancient  city  of  Italy.      Dante  was  buried  there. 

2  A  city  on  the  shore  of  the  Adriatic. 

3  The  tragic  story  of  Francesca  da  Rimini  forms  an  episode  in  Dante's 
Divina  Commedia. 

*  Nicholas  Rowe  (1674-1718),  a  dramatist  and  translator,  who  wrote  sev- 
eral plays,  and  in  1709  published  the  first  critical  edition  of  Shakespeare. 


6o  MAC  AULA  Y. 

prospects  of  his  party  were  constantly  becoming  brighter  and 
brighter.  In  the  spring  of  1705,  the  ministers  were  freed  from 
the  restraint  imposed  by  a  House  of  Commons  in  which  Tories 
of  the  most  perverse  class  had  the  ascendency.  The  elections 
were  favorable  to  the  Whigs.  The  coalition  which  had  been 
tacitly  and  gradually  formed  was  now  openly  avowed.  The 
Great  Seal  ^  was  given  to  Cowper.  Somers  and  Halifax  were 
sworn  of  the  Council.  Halifax  was  sent  in  the  following  year 
to  carry  the  decorations  of  the  order  of  the  garter  to  the  Elec- 
toral Prince  of  Hanover,^  and  was  accompanied  on  this  honorable 
mission  by  Addison,  who  had  just  been  made  undersecretary 
of  state.  The  secretary  of  state  under  whom  Addison  first 
served  was  Sir  Charles  Hedges,  a  Tory ;  but  Hedges  was  soon 
dismissed  to  make  room  for  the  most  vehement  of  Whigs,  Charles, 
Earl  of  Sunderland.  In  every  department  of  the  state,  indeed, 
the  High  Churchmen  were  compelled  to  give  place  to  their 
opponents.  At  the  close  of  1707,  the  Tories  who  still  remained 
in  office  strove  to  rally,  with  Harley  ^  at  their  head ;  but  the  at- 
tempt, though  favored  by  the  Queen,  —  who  had  always  been  a 
Tory  at  heart,  and  who  had  now  quarreled  with  the  Duchess  of 
Marlborough,* — was  unsuccessful.  The  time  was  not  yet.  The 
captain  general  was  at  the  height  of  popularity  and  glory.     The 

1  The  Great  Seal,  the  specific  emblem  of  sovereignty  in  England,  is  ap- 
pended only  to  the  most  important  class  of  documents.  It  is  in  charge  of  a 
lord  keeper. 

2  George,  son  of  the  Princess  Sophia  of  Hanover,  granddaughter  of 
James  I.  He  was  made  King  of  England,  as  George  I.,  on  the  death  of 
Queen  Anne  in  1714. 

3  Earl  of  Oxford  (1661-1724),  a  prominent  but  vacillating  politician, 
chancellor  of  the  exchequer  under  Queen  Anne.  On  the  accession  of 
George  I.,  he  was  impeached  for  alleged  complicity  with  the  Jacobites,  and 
imprisoned  in  the  Tower  for  two  years. 

*  Sarah  Jennings,  Duchess  of  Marlborough  (i  660-1 744),  a  woman  of 
strong  character  and  imperious  temper.  She  enjoyed  the  entire  confidence 
of  Queen  Anne,  and  was  for  many  years  the  "power  behind  the  throne," 
dispensing  places  and  favors  at  her  pleasure.  Her  rule  became  intolerable, 
however,  in  time,  and  she  retired  from  the  Queen's  service  in  171 1. 


THE  LIFE  AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON.  6i 

Low  Church  party  had  a  majority  in  Parhament.  The  country 
squires  and  rectors,  though  occasionally  uttering  a  savage  growl, 
were  for  the  most  part  in  a  state  of  torpor,  which  lasted  till  they 
were  roused  into  activity,  and  indeed  into  madness,  by  the  pros- 
ecution of  Sacheverell.i  Harley  and  his  adherents  were  com- 
pelled to  retire.  The  victory  of  the  Whigs  was  complete.  At  the 
general  election  of  1708,  their  strength  in  the  House  of  Com- 
mons became  irresistible  ;  and  before  the  end  of  that  year  Somers 
was  made  lord  president  of  the  Council,  and  Wharton  2  lord 
Heutenant  of  Ireland. 

Addison  sat  for  Malmesbury  in  the  House  of  Commons  which 
was  elected  in  1708;  but  the  House  of  Commons  was  not  the 
field  for  him.  The  bashfulness  of  his  nature  made  his  wit  and 
eloquence  useless  in  debate.  He  once  rose,  but  could  not  over- 
come his  diffidence,  and  ever  after  remained  silent.  Nobody  can 
think  it  strange  that  a  great  writer  should  fail  as  a  speaker ;  but 
many  probably  will  think  it  strange  that  Addison's  failure  as  a 
speaker  should  have  had  no  unfavorable  effect  on  his  success  as 
a  pohtician.  In  our  time,  a  man  of  high  rank  and  great  fortune 
might,  though  speaking  very  little  and  very  ill,  hold  a  consid- 
erable post ;  but  it  would  now  be  inconceivable  that  a  mere 
adventurer — a  man  who,  when  out  of  office,  must  hve  by  his 
pen  —  should  in  a  few  years  become  successively  undersecretary 
of  state,  chief  secretary  for  Ireland,  and  secretary  of  state,  with- 
out some  oratorical  talent.  Addison,  without  high  birth  and 
with  little  property,  rose  to  a  post  which  dukes,  the  heads  of  the 
great  houses  of  Talbot,  Russell,  and  Bentinck,  have  thought  it 
an  honor  to  fill.     Without  opening  his  lips  in  debate,  he  rose  to 

1  Henry  Sacheverell,  D.D.  (1672-1724),  a  college  mate  of  Addison,  who 
gained  great  notoriety  by  the  delivery  of  two  sermons  reflecting  upon  the 
government,  which  led  to  his  imprisonment,  and  his  suspension  for  three 
years. 

2  Thomas,  Marquis  of  Wharton  (1640-1715),  an  eminent  Whig  statesman, 
reputed  author  of  the  ballad  of  Liiliburlero,  and  lord  lieutenant  of  Ireland 
from  1708  to  1 710,  with  Addison  for  his  chief  secretary. 


62  MACAULAY. 

a  post,  the  highest  that  Chatham  ^  or  Fox  2  ever  reached ;  and 
this  he  did  before  he  had  been  nine  years  in  Parhament.  We 
must  look  for  the  explanation  of  this  seeming  miracle  to  the  pecul- 
iar circumstances  in  which  that  generation  was  placed.  During 
the  interval  which  elapsed  between  the  time  when  the  censorship 
of  the  press  ceased,  and  the  time  when  parhamentary  proceed- 
ings began  to  be  freely  reported,  literary  talents  were,  to  a  pubhc 
man,  of  much  more  importance,  and  oratorical  talents  of  much 
less  importance,  than  in  our  time.  At  present,  the  best  way  of 
giving  rapid  and  wide  publicity  to  a  fact  or  an  argument  is  to 
introduce  that  fact  or  argument  into  a  speech  made  in  Parlia- 
ment. If  a  political  tract  were  to  appear  superior  to  "  The  Con- 
duct of  the  Allies,"  ^  or  to  the  best  numbers  of  the  "  Freeholder," 
the  circulation  of  such  a  tract  would  be  languid  indeed,  when  com- 
pared with  the  circulation  of  every  remarkable  word  uttered  in 
the  deliberations  of  the  Legislature.  A  speech  made  in  the  House 
of  Commons  at  four  in  the  morning  is  on  thirty  thousand  tables 
before  ten.  A  speech  made  on  the  Monday  is  read  on  the  Wednes- 
day by  multitudes  in  Antrim  and  Aberdeenshire.^  The  orator, 
by  the  help  of  the  shorthand  writer,  has  to  a  great  extent  super- 
seded the  pamphleteer.  It  was  not  so  in  the  reign  of  Anne. 
The  best  speech  could  then  produce  no  effect  except  on  those 
who  heard  it.  It  was  only  by  means  of  the  press,  that  the  opin- 
ion of  the  public  without  doors  could  be  influenced;  and  the 
opinion  of  the  pubhc  without  doors  could  not  but  be  of  the  high- 
est importance  in  a  country  governed  by  parliaments,  and  indeed 

1  William  Pitt,  Earl  of  Chatham  (1708-78),  orator,  and  prime  minister 
under  George  III. 

2  Charles  James  Fox  (i  749-1 806),  a  brilliant  orator  and  statesman,  the 
rival  of  Chatham.  He  opposed  the  coercive  measures  adopted  against  the 
American  Colonies,  took  an  active  part  in  all  the  great  political  events  of  the 
time,  and  prepared  a  bill  for  the  abolition  of  the  slave  trade. 

3  The  title  of  a  pamphlet  written  by  Dean  Swift  in  171 1,  the  purpose  of 
which  was  to  persuade  the  nation  to  a  peaceful  solution  of  its  quarrel  with 
France. 

*  Antrim  is  in  Ireland,  and  Aberdeenshire  in  Scotland. 


THE  LIFE  AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON.  63 

at  that  time  governed  by  triennial  parliaments.  The  pen  was 
therefore  a  more  formidable  political  engine  than  the  tongue. 
Mr.  Pitt  and  Mr.  Fox  contended  only  in  Parliament.  But  Wal- 
pole  1  and  Pulteney,^  the  Pitt  and  Fox  of  an  earher  period,  had 
not  done  half  of  what  was  necessary  when  they  sat  down  amidst 
the  acclamations  of  the  House  of  Commons.  They  had  still  to 
plead  their  cause  before  the  country,  and  this  they  could  do  only 
by  means  of  the  press.  Their  works  are  now  forgotten ;  but  it 
is  certain  that  there  were  in  Grub  Street  "^  few  more  assiduous 
scribblers  of  Thoughts,  Letters,  Answers,  Remarks,  than  these 
two  great  chiefs  of  parties.  Pulteney,  when  leader  of  the  Op- 
position, and  possessed  of  thirty  thousand  a  year,  edited  the 
"Craftsman."  Walpole,  though  not  a  man  of  literary  habits,  was 
the  author  of  at  least  ten  pamphlets,  and  retouched  and  corrected 
many  more.  These  facts  sufficiently  show  of  how  great  impor- 
tance literary  assistance  then  was  to  the  contending  parties.  St. 
John  ^  was  certainly,  in  Anne's  reign,  the  best  Tory  speaker ; 
Cowper  was  probably  the  best  Whig  speaker :  but  it  may  well 
be  doubted  whether  St.  John  did  so  much  for  the  Tories  as  Swift, 
and  whether  Cowper  did  so  much  for  the  Whigs  as  Addison. 
When  these  things  are  duly  considered,  it  will  not  be  thought 
strange  that  Addison  should  have  climbed  higher  in  the  State 
than  any  other  Englishman  has  ever,  by  means  merely  of  literary 
talents,  been  able  to  climb.  Swift  would  in  all  probabiHty  have 
climbed  as  high  if  he  had  not  been  encumbered  by  his  cassock 

1  Sir  Robert  Walpole  (1676-1745),  an  English  statesman,  leader  of  the 
Whig  party  in  Parliament.  Under  George  I.  he  was  made  chancellor  of  the 
exchequer  and  prime  minister. 

2  WiUiam^  Pulteney  (1682-1764)  was  at  first  a  friend  and  colleague  of  Sir 
Robert  Walpole,  but  subsequently  led  a  coalition  against  him.  He  assisted 
Bolingbroke  in  writing  the  Craftsman,  was  made  member  of  the  Privy  Coun- 
cil, and  created  Earl  of  Bath. 

3  A  street  in  London  inhabited  mostly  by  literary  hacks  and  penniless 
writers,  which  became  a  proverb  to  denote  any  mean  production  in  litera- 
ture. 

.    *  Lord  Bolingbroke. 


64  MACAULAY. 

and  his  pudding  sleeves. ^  As  far  as  the  homage  of  the  great 
went,  Swift  had  as  much  of  it  as  if  he  had  been  lord  treasurer. 

To  the  influence  which  Addison  derived  from  his  literary  tal- 
ents was  added  all  the  influence  which  arises  from  character. 
The  world,  always  ready  to  think  the  worst  of  needy  political 
adventurers,  was  forced  to  make  one  exception.  Restlessness, 
violence,  audacity,  laxity  of  principle,  are  the  vices  ordinarily  at- 
tributed to  that  class  of  men.  But  faction  itself  could  not  deny 
that  Addison  had,  through  all  changes  of  fortune,  been  strictly 
faithful  to  his  early  opinions  and  to  his  early  friends ;  that  his 
integrity  was  without  stain  ;  that  his  whole  deportment  indicated 
a  fine  sense  of  the  becoming ;  that,  in  the  utmost  heat  of  contro- 
versy, his  zeal  was  tempered  by  a  regard  for  truth,  humanity, 
and  social  decorum ;  that  no  outrage  could  ever  provoke  him  to 
retaliation  unworthy  of  a  Christian  and  a  gentleman ;  and  that 
his  only  faults  were  a  too  sensitive  dehcacy  and  a  modesty  which 
amounted  to  bashfulness. 

He  was  undoubtedly  one  of  the  most  popular  men  of  his  time  ; 
and  much  of  his  popularity  he  owed,  we  beheve,  to  that  very 
timidity  which  his  friends  lamented.  That  timidity  often  pre- 
vented him  from  exhibiting  his  talents  to  the  best  advantage ; 
but  it  propitiated  Nemesis.^  It  averted  that  envy  which  would 
otherwise  have  been  excited  by  fame  so  splendid,  and  by  so  rapid 
an  elevation.  No  man  is  so  great  a  favorite  with  the  public  as 
he  who  is  at  once  an  object  of  admiration,  of  respect,  and  of 
pity  ;  and  such  were  the  feelings  which  Addison  inspired.  Those 
who  enjoyed  the  privilege  of  hearing  his  familiar  conversation 
declared  with  one  voice  that  it  was  superior  even  to  his  writings. 
The  brilHant  Mary  Montagu^  said  that  she  had  known  all  the 

^  A  cassock  is  a  long  loose  outer  coat  worn  by  the  priests  and  choristers 
in  the  Anglican  and  Roman-Catholic  churches.  Pudding  sleeves  are  the 
lawn  sleeves  of  a  dean's  or  bishop's  gown. 

2  In  Greek  mythology,  the  goddess  of  vengeance,  whose  business  it  was  to 
punish  wickedness. 

3  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu  (1690-1762),  an  English  lady  of  distin- 


THE  LIFE  AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON  65 

wits,  and  that  Addison  was  the  best  company  in  the  world.  The 
mahgnant  Pope  was  forced  to  own  that  there  was  a  charm  in 
Addison's  talk  which  could  be  found  nowhere  else.  Swift,  when 
burning  with  animosity  against  the  Whigs,  could  not  but  confess 
to  Stella  1  that,  after  all,  he  had  never  known  any  associate  so 
agreeable  as  Addison.  Steele,^  an  excellent  judge  of  lively  con- 
versation, said  that  the  conversation  of  Addison  was  at  once  the 
most  polite  and  the  most  mirthful  that  could  be  imagined ;  that 
it  was  Terence  ^  and  Catulkis  in  one,  heightened  by  an  exquisite 
something  which  was  neither  Terence  nor  Catullus,  but  Addison 
alone.  Young,  an  excellent  judge  of  serious  conversation,  said, 
that,  when  Addison  was  at  his  ease,  he  went  on  in  a  noble  strain 
of  thought  and  language,  so  as  to  chain  the  attention  of  every 
hearer.  Nor  were  Addison's  great  colloquial  powers  more  ad- 
mirable than  the  courtesy  and  softness  of  heart  which  appeared 
in  his  conversation.  At  the  same  time,  it  would  be  too  much  to 
say  that  he  was  wholly  devoid  of  the  malice  which  is,  perhaps, 
inseparable  from  a  keen  sense  of  the  ludicrous.  He  had  one 
habit  which  both  Swift  and  Stella  applauded,  and  which  we 
hardly  know  how  to  blame.  If  his  first  attempts  to  set  a  presum- 
ing dunce  right  were  ill  received,  he  changed  his  tone,  **  assented 
with  civil  leer,"  and  lured,  the  flattered  coxcomb  deeper  and 
deeper  into  absurdity.  That  such  was  his  practice  we  should, 
we  think,  have  guessed  from  his  works.  The  "Tatler's  "  criticisms 
on  Mr.  Softly's  sonnet,  and  the  "  Spectator's  "  dialogue  with  the 
politician  who  is  so  zealous  for  the  honor  of  Lady  Q — p — t — s,^ 
are  excellent  specimens  of  this  innocent  mischief. 

guished  literary  attainments  who  lived  for  some  years  in  Constantinople,  and 
wrote  interesting  letters  from  there  to  Pope,  Addison,  and  other  eminent  men. 
She  first  introduced  into  England  the  practice  of  inoculation  for  smallpox. 

1  Name  given  by  Swift  to  Miss  Johnson,  to  whom  he  wrote  his  Journal. 

2  Sir  Richard  Steele  was  born  in  1671,  died  in  1729. 

3  An  author  of  comedies  in  the  Latin  tongue,  supposed  to  have  been  born 
about  194  B.C. 

4  It  is  not  clear  whether  this  is  a  real  or  a  fictitious  personage  (see  Spec- 
tator, Nos.  567,  568). 

5 


66  MACAULAY. 

Such  were  Addison^s  talents  for  conversation.  But  his  rare 
gifts  were  not  exhibited  to  crowds  or  to  strangers.  As  soon  as 
he  entered  a  large  company,  as  soon  as  he  saw  an  unknown  face, 
his  lips  were  sealed,  and  his  manners  became  constrained.  None 
who  met  him  only  in  great  assemblies  would  have  been  able  to 
believe  that  he  was  the  same  man  who  had  often  kept  a  few 
friends  listening  and  laughing  round  a  table  from  the  time  when 
the  play  ended  till  the  clock  of  St.  Paul's  in  Covent  Garden  ^ 
struck  four.  Yet,  even  at  such  a  table,  he  was  not  seen  to  the 
best  advantage.  To  enjoy  his  conversation  in  the  highest  per- 
fection, it  was  necessary  to  be  alone  with  him,  and  to  hear  him, 
in  his  own  phrase,  think  aloud.  "  There  is  no  such  thing,"  he 
used  to  say,  ''as  real  conversation  but  between  two  persons." 

This  timidity  —  a  timidity  surely  neither  ungraceful  nor  unamia- 
ble — led  Addison  into  the  two  most  serious  faults  which  can  with 
justice  be  imputed  to  him.  He  found  that  wine  broke  the  spell 
which  lay  on  his  fine  intellect,  and  was  therefore  too  easily  se- 
duced into  convivial  excess.  Such  excess  was  in  that  age  regarded, 
even  by  grave  men,  as  the  most  venial  of  all  peccadillos,^  and 
was  so  far  from  being  a  mark  of  ill  breeding  that  it  was  almost 
essential  to  the  character  of  a  fine  gentleman.  But  the  smallest 
speck  is  seen  on  a  white  ground ;  and  almost  all  the  biographers 
of  Addison  have  said  something  about  this  faihng.  Of  any  other 
statesman  or  writer  of  Queen  Anne's  reign,  we  should  no  more 
think  of  saying  that  he  sometimes  took  too  much  wine  than  that 
he  wore  a  long  wig  and  a  sword. 

To  the  excessive  modesty  of  Addison's  nature  we  must  ascribe 
another  fault,  which  generally  arises  from  a  very  different  cause. 
He  became  a  little  too  fond  of  seeing  himself  surrounded  by  a 
small  circle  of  admirers  to  whom  he  was  as  a  king  or  rather  as  a 
god.     k\\  these  men  were  far  inferior  to  him  in  abilit)^,  and  some 

1  Originally  the  garden  of  Westminster  Abbey  (and  so  called  *'  Convent 
Garden  "),  a  square  in  London  and  a  great  market  of  fruits,  vegetables,  and 
flowers.     The  Covent  Garden  Theater  is  near  it. 

2  Small  sins. 


THE  LIFE  AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON.  67 

of  them  had  very  serious  faults.  Nor  did  those  faults  escape  his 
observation  ;  for,  if  ever  there  was  an  e3^e  which  saw  through  and 
through  men,  it  was  the  eye  of  Addison.  But,  with  the  keenest 
observation  and  the  finest  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  he  had  a  large 
charity.  The  feeling  with  which  he  looked  on  most  of  his 
humble  companions  was  one  of  benevolence,  slightly  tinctured 
with  contempt.  He  was  at  perfect  ease  in  their  company ; 
he  was  grateful  for  their  devoted  attachment ;  and  he  loaded 
them  with  benefits.  Their  veneration  for  him  appears  to  have 
exceeded  that  with  which  Johnson  was  regarded  by  Boswell,i  or 
Warburton^  by  Hurd.'^  It  was  not  in  the  power  of  adulation  to 
turn  such  a  head,  or  deprave  such  a  heart,  as  Addison's ;  but  it 
must  in  candor  be  admitted,  that  he  contracted  some  of  the  faults 
which  can  scarcely  be  avoided  by  any  person  who  is  so  unfortu- 
nate as  to  be  the  oracle  of  a  small  literary  coterie. 

One  member  of  this  little  society  was  Eustace  Budgell,  a  young 
templar  of  some  literature,  and  a  distant  relation  of  Addison. 
There  was  at  this  time  no  stain  on  the  character  of  Budgell ;  and 
it  is  not  improbable  that  his  career  would  have  been  prosperous 
and  honorable,  if  the  life  of  his  cousin  had  been  prolonged.  But 
when  the  master  was  laid  in  the  grave,  the  disciple  broke  loose 
from  all  restraint,  descended  rapidly  from  one  degree  of  vice  and 
misery  to  another,  ruined  his  fortune  by  follies,  attempted  to 
repair  it  by  crimes,  and  at  length  closed  a  wicked  and  unhappy  hfe 
by  self-murder.  Yet,  to  the  last,  the  wretched  man — gambler, 
lampooner,  cheat,  forger,  as  he  was  —  retained  his  affection  and 
veneration  for  Addison,  and  recorded  those  feelings  in  the  last 
lines  which  he  traced  before  he  hid  himself  from  infamy  under 
London  Bridge. 

1  James  Bos  well  (1740-95),  a  Scottish  gentleman  whose  Memoirs  of 
Dr.  Samuel  Johnson  are  pronounced  by  Macaulay  and  others  the  greatest  of 
all  biographies. 

2  William  Warburton  (i 698-1 779),  a  famous  English  divine,  a  man  of 
vast  reading,  but  dogmatic  and  intolerant  in  his  methods  of  controversy. 

3  Richard  Hurd  (i  720-1808),  an  English  prelate  and  writer,  author  of 
several  polemical  and  critical  works ;  a  friend  of  Warburton. 


68  MACAULAY. 

Another  of  Addison's  favorite  companions  was  Ambrose  Philips,^ 
a  good  Whig  and  a  middling  poet,  who  had  the  honor  of  bring- 
ing into  fashion  a  species  of  composition  which  has  been  called, 
after  his  name,  Namby  Pamby.  But  the  most  remarkable  mem- 
bers of  the  little  senate,  as  Pope  long  afterwards  called  it,  were 
Richard  Steele  and  Thomas  Tickell.^ 

Steele  had  known  Addison  from  childhood.  They  had  been 
together  at  the  Charter  House  and  at  Oxford ;  but  circumstances 
had  then,  for  a  time,  separated  them  widely.  Steele  had  left  college 
without  taking  a  degree,  had  been  disinherited  by  a  rich  relation, 
had  led  a  vagrant  life,  had  served  in  the  army,  had  tried  to  find 
the  philosopher's  stone,  and  had  written  a  religious  treatise  and 
several  comedies.  He  was  one  of  those  people  whom  it  is 
impossible  either  to  hate  or  to  respect.  His  temper  was  sweet, 
his  affections  warm,  his  spirits  lively,  his  passions  strong,  and  his 
principles  weak.  His  life  was  spent  in  sinning  and  repenting ; 
in  inculcating  what  was  right,  and  doing  what  was  wrong.  In 
speculation  he  was  a  man  of  piety  and  honor;  in  practice  he 
was  much  of  the  rake  and  a  little  of  the  swindler.  He  was,  how- 
ever, so  good-natured  that  it  was  not  easy  to  be  seriously  angry 
with  him,  and  that  even  rigid  morajists  felt  more  incHned  to  pity 
than  to  blame  him  when  he  diced  himself  into  a  sponging  house,^ 
or  drank  himself  into  a  fever.  Addison  regarded  Steele  with 
kindness  not  unmingled  with  scorn,  tried,  with  little  success,  to 
keep  him  out  of  scrapes,  introduced  him  to  the  great,  procured 
a  good  place  for  him,  corrected  his  plays,  and,  though  by  no 
means  rich,  lent  him  large  sums  of  money.  One  of  these  loans 
appears,  from  a  letter  dated  in  August,  1708,  to  have  amounted 

1  Ambrose  Philips  (1671-1749),  author  of  a  drama,  The  Distressed 
Mother,  and  occasional  papers  in  the  Spectator. 

2  Thomas  Tickell  (i  686-1 740)  published  an  edition  of  Addison's  works  in 
1 72 1,  and  wrote  a  beautiful  elegy  upon  his  death,  one  of  the  finest  examples 
of  memorial  verse  in  the  language. 

3  A  house  where  persons  arrested  for  debt  were  kept  for  twenty-four 
hours  before  lodging  them  in  prison. 


THE  LIFE  AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON.  69 

to  a  thousand  pounds.  These  pecuniary  transactions  probably 
led  to  frequent  bickerings.  It  is  said  that,  on  one  occasion, 
Steele's  negligence  or  dishonesty  provoked  Addison  to  repay 
himself  by  the  help  of  a  baiHff.  We  cannot  join  with  Miss  Aikin 
in  rejecting  this  story.  Johnson  heard  it  from  Savage,^  who  heard 
it  from  Steele.  Few  private  transactions  which  took  place  a  hun- 
dred and  twenty  years  ago  are  proved  by  stronger  evidence  than 
this.  But  we  can  by  no  means  agree  with  those  who  condemn 
Addison's  severity.  The  most  amiable  of  mankind  may  well  be 
moved  to  indignation  when  what  he  has  earned  hardly,  and  lent 
with  great  inconvenience  to  himself,  for  the  purpose  of  relieving 
a  friend  in  distress,  is  squandered  with  insane  profusion.  We 
will  illustrate  our  meaning  by  an  example  which  is  not  the  less 
striking  because  it  is  taken  from  fiction.  Dr.  Harrison,  in  Field- 
ing's 2  "  Amelia,"  is  represented  as  the  most  benevolent  of  human 
beings ;  yet  he  takes  in  execution,  not  only  the  goods,  but  the 
person,  of  his  friend  Booth.  Dr.  Harrison  resorts  to  this  strong 
measure  because  he  has  been  informed  that  Booth,  while  plead- 
ing poverty  as  an  excuse  for  not  paying  just  debts,  has  been  buying 
fine  jewelry,  and  setting  up  a  coach.  No  person  who  is  well 
acquainted  with  Steele's  life  and  correspondence  can  doubt  that 
he  behaved  quite  as  ill  to  Addison  as  Booth  was  accused  of 
behaving  to  Dr.  Harrison.  The  real  history,  we  have  httle  doubt, 
was  something  like  this:  a  letter  comes  to  Addison,  imploring 
help  in  pathetic  terms,  and  promising  reformation  and  speedy 
repayment.  Poor  Dick  declares  that  he  has  not  an  inch  of  can- 
dle, or  a  bushel  of  coals,  or  credit  with  the  butcher  for  a  shoulder 
of  mutton.  Addison  is  moved.  He  determines  to  deny  him- 
self some  medals  which  are  wanting  to  his  series  of  the  Twelve 

1  Richard  Savage  (i 698-1 743),  a  minor  English  poet.  Dr.  Johnson  be- 
friended him  during  his  wandering  and  homeless  life  in  London,  and  wrote 
his  biography. 

2  Henry  Fielding  (1714-54),  one  of  the  great  masters  of  English  fiction, 
called  by  Byron  "  the  prose  Homer  of  human  nature."  His  greatest  work 
is  Tom  Jones. 


70  MAC  AULA  Y. 

Caesars,  to  put  off  buying  the  new  edition  of  Bayle*s  ^  Diction- 
ary, and  to  wear  his  old  sword  and  buckles  another  year:  in 
this  way  he  manages  to  send  a  hundred  pounds  to  his  friend. 
The  next  day  he  calls  on  Steele,  and  finds  scores  of  gentlemen 
and  ladies  assembled.  The  fiddles  are  playing.  The  table  is 
groaning  under  Champagne,  Burgundy,  and  pyramids  of  sweet- 
meats. Is  it  strange  that  a  man  whose  kindness  is  thus 
abused  should  send  sheriff's  officers  to  reclaim  what  is  due  to 
him  ? 

Tickell  was  a  young  man,  fresh  from  Oxford,  who  had  intro- 
duced himself  to  public  notice  by  writing  a  most  ingenious  and 
graceful  httle  poem  in  praise  of  the  opera  of  "  Rosamond."  He 
deserved,  and  at  length  attained,  the  first  place  in  Addison's 
friendship.  For  a  time  Steele  and  Tickell  were  on  good  terms ; 
but  they  loved  Addison  too  much  to  love  each  other,  and  at 
length  became  as  bitter  enemies  as  the  rival  bulls  in  Virgil.^ 

At  the  close  of  1708  Wharton  became  lord  lieutenant  of 
Ireland,  and  appointed  Addison  chief  secretary.  Addison  was 
consequently  under  the  necessity  of  quitting  London  for  Dublin. 
Besides  the  chief  secretaryship,  which  was  then  worth  about  two 
thousand  pounds  a  year,  he  obtained  a  patent  appointing  him 
keeper  of  the  Irish  Records  for  life,  with  a  salary  of  three  or  four 
hundred  a  year.  Budgell  accompanied  his  cousin  in  tlie  capa- 
city of  private  secretary. 

Wharton  and  Addison  had  nothing  in  common  but  Whiggism. 
The  lord  lieutenant  was  not  only  licentious  and  corrupt,  but  was 
distinguished  from  other  libertines  and  jobbers  by  a  callous  impu- 
dence which  presented  the  strongest  contrast  to  the  secretary's 
gentleness  and  delicacy.  Many  parts  of  the  Irish  administration 
at  this  time  appear  to  have  deserved  serious  blame ;  but  against 
Addison  there  was  not  a  murmur.     He  long  afterwards  asserted, 

1  Pierre  Bayle  (1657-1706),  author  of  the  celebrated  Historical  and  Critical 
Dictionary,  which  has  attracted  the  attention  of  the  learned  so  much  since  his 
day. 

2  See  GeorgicSj  iii.  220-225. 


THE   LIFE  AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON.  71 

what  all  the  evidence  which  we  have  ever  seen  tends  to  prove, 
that  his  diHgence  and  integrit}^  gained  the  friendship  of  all  the 
most  considerable  persons  in  Ireland. 

The  parliamentary  career  of  Addison  in  Ireland  has,  we  think, 
wholly  escaped  the  notice  of  all  his  biographers.  He  was  elected 
member  for  the  borough  of  Cavan  in  the  summer  of  1709  ;  and 
in  the  journals  of  two  sessions  his  name  frequently  occurs.  Some 
of  the  entries  appear  to  indicate  that  he  so  far  overcame  his 
timidity  as  to  make  speeches.  Nor  is  this  by  any  means  im- 
probable, for  the  Irish  House  of  Commons  was  a  far  less  for- 
midable audience  than  the  English  House,  and  many  tongues 
which  were  tied  by  fear  in  the  greater  assembly  became  fluent 
in  the  smaller.  Gerard  Hamilton, ^  for  example,  who,  from  fear 
of  losing  the  fame  gained  by  his  single  speech,  sat  mute  at 
Westminster  during  forty  years,  spoke  with  great  effect  at  Dublin 
when  he  was  secretary  to  Lord  Hahfax. 

While  Addison  was  in  Ireland,  an  event  occurred  to  which  he 
owes  his  high  and  permanent  rank  among  British  writers.  As 
yet  his  fame  rested  on  performances,  which,  though  highly  re- 
spectable, were  not  built  for  duration,  and  which  would,  if  he 
had  produced  nothing  else,  have  now  been  almost  forgotten,  —  on 
some  excellent  Latin  verses,  on  some  Enghsh  verses  which  occa- 
sionally rose  above  mediocrity,  and  on  a  book  of  travels,  agree- 
ably written,  but  not  indicating  any  extraordinary  powers  of  mind. 
These  works  showed  him  to  be  a  man  of  taste,  sense,  and  learn- 
ing. The  time  had  come  when  he  was  to  prove  himself  a  man 
of  genius,  and  to  enrich  our  literature  with  compositions  which 
will  live  as  long  as  the  English  language. 

In  the  spring  of  1709  Steele  formed  a  literary  project,  of  which 
he  was  far  indeed  from  foreseeing  the  consequences.  Periodical 
papers  had  during  many  years  been  pubHshed  in  London.  Most 
of  these  were  political ;  but  in  some  of  them  questions  of  moral- 
ity, taste,  and  love  casuistry  had  been  discussed.     The  literary 

1  William  Gerard  Hamilton  (1729-96),  an  English  statesman,  nicknamed 
**  Single-speech  Hamilton." 


72  MACAULAY, 

merit  of  these  works  was  small  indeed,  and  even  their  names  are 
now  known  only  to  the  curious. 

Steele  had  been  appointed  gazetteer  ^  by  Sunderland,  at  the  re- 
quest, it  is  said,  of  Addison,  and  thus  had  access  to  foreign  intel- 
ligence earlier  and  more  authentic  than  was  in  those  times  within 
the  reach  of  an  ordinary  news- writer.  This  circumstance  seems 
to  have  suggested  to  him  the  scheme  of  publishing  a  periodical 
paper  on  a  new  plan.  It  was  to  appear  on  the  days  on 
which  the  post  left  London  for  the  country,  which  were,  in  that 
generation,  the  Tuesdays,  Thursdays,  and  Saturdays.  It  was  to 
contain  the  foreign  news,  accounts  of  theatrical  representations, 
and  the  literary  gossip  of  Will's  and  of  the  Grecian.^  It  was  also 
to  contain  remarks  on  the  fashionable  topics  of  the  day,  compli- 
ments to  beauties,  pasquinades^  on  noted  sharpers,  and  criticisms 
on  popular  preachers.  The  aim  of  Steele  does  not  appear  to 
have  been  at  first  higher  than  this.  He  was  not  ill  qualified  to 
conduct  the  work  which  he  had  planned.  His  public  intelli- 
gence he  drew  from  the  best  sources.  He  knew  the  town,  and 
had  paid  dear  for  his  knowledge.  He  had  read  much  more  than 
the  dissipated  men  of  that  time  were  in  the  habit  of  reading. 
He  was  a  rake  among  scholars,  and  a  scholar  among  rakes. 
His  style  was  easy  and  not  incorrect,  and,  though  his  wit  and 
humor  were  of  no  high  order,  his  gay  animal  spirits  imparted  to 
his  compositions  an  air  of  vivacity  which  ordinary  readers  could 
hardly  distinguish  from  comic  genius.  His  writings  have  been 
well  compared  to  those  light  wines,  which,  though  deficient  in 
body  and  flavor,  are  yet  a  pleasant  small  drink,  if  not  kept  too 
long,  or  carried  too  far. 

Isaac  Bickerstaff,  Esq.,  astrologer,  was  an  imaginary  person, 
almost  as  well  known  in  that  age,  as   Mr.  Paul  Pry^  or  Mr. 

1  An  author  or  publisher  of  news,  authorized  by  the  government. 

2  Will's  and  the  Grecian,  well-known  coffeehouses  in  Queen  Anne's  time. 

3  Lampoons,  or  squibs,  having  ridicule  for  their  object ;  so  called  from 
Pasquinado,  a  famous  Italian  wit  of  the  fifteenth  century. 

*  A  character  in  a  comedy  of  same  name,  by  John  Poole,  about  1840. 


THE  LIFE  AND    WRITINGS  OF  ADDISON  73 

Samuel  Pickwick  ^  in  ours.  Swift  had  assumed  the  name  of  Bick- 
erstaff  in  a  satirical  pamphlet  against  Partridge,  the  maker  of 
almanacs.  Partridge  had  been  fool  enough  to  publish  a  furious 
reply.  Bickerstaff  had  rejoined  in  a  second  pamphlet  still  more 
diverting  than  the  first.  All  the  wits  had  combined  to  keep  up 
the  joke ;  and  the  town  was  long  in  convulsions  of  laughter. 
Steele  determined  to  employ  the  name  which  this  controversy 
had  made  popular;  and  in  1709  it  was  announced  that  Isaac 
Bickerstaff,  Esq.,  astrologer,  was  about  to  pubhsh  a  paper  called 
the  "  Tatler." 

Addison  had  not  been  consulted  about  this  scheme ;  but,  as 
soon  as  he  heard  of  it,  he  determined  to  give  his  assistance. 
The  effect  of  that  assistance  cannot  be  better  described  than  in 
Steele's  own  words.  '*  I  fared,"  he  said,  **  like  a  distressed  prince 
who  calls  in  a  powerful  neighbor  to  his  aid.  I  was  undone  by 
my  auxiliary.  When  I  had  once  called  him  in,  I  could  not  sub- 
sist without  dependence  on  him."  ''The  paper,"  he  says  else- 
where, "  was  advanced  indeed.  It  was  raised  to  a  greater  thing 
than  I  intended  it." 

It  is  probable  that  Addison,  when  he  sent  across  St.  George^s 
Channel  his  first  contributions  to  the  ''  Tatler,"  had  no  notion  of 
the  extent  and  variety  of  his  own  powers.  He  was  the  possess- 
or of  a  vast  mine,  rich  with  a  hundred  ores ;  but  he  had  been 
acquainted  only  with  the  least  precious  part  of  his  treasures,  and 
had  hitherto  contented  himself  with  producing  sometimes  copper, 
and  sometimes  lead,  intermingled  with  a  little  silver.  All  at  once, 
and  by  mere  accident,  he  had  lighted  on  an  inexhaustible  vein 
of  the  finest  gold. 

The  mere  choice  and  arrangement  of  his  words  would  have 
sufficed  to  make  his  essays  classical ;  for  never — not  even  by 
Dryden,  not  even  by  Temple  ^ — had  the  English  language  been 
written  with  such  sweetness,  grace,  and  facility.     But  this  was 

1  The  principal  character  in  Dickens's  Pickwick  Papers,  published  in  1836. 

2  Sir  William  Temple  (1628-99),  a  diplomatist,  and  writer  upon  various 
subjects,  whose  essays  are  considered  models  of  English  style. 


74  MAC  AULA  Y, 

the  smallest  part  of  Addison's  praise.  Had  he  clothed  his 
thoughts  in  the  half  French  style  of  Horace  Walpole,i  or  in  the 
half  Latin  style  of  Dr.  Johnson,  or  in  the  half  German  jargon  of 
the  present  day,  his  genius  would  have  triumphed  over  all  faults 
of  manner.  As  a  moral  satirist,  he  stands  unrivaled.  If  ever  the 
best  ''Tatlers"  and  ''Spectators"  were  equaled  in  their  own  kind, 
we  should  be  inchned  to  guess  that  it  must  have  been  by  the  lost 
comedies  of  Menander. 

In  wit,  properly  so  called,  Addison  was  not  inferior  to  Cow- 
ley ^  or  Butler.^  No  single  ode  of  Cowley  contains  so  many 
happy  analogies  as  are  crowded  into  the  lines  to  Sir  Godfrey 
Kneller;^  and  we  would  undertake  to  collect  from  the  ''Specta- 
tors "  as  great  a  number  of  ingenious  illustrationaas  can  be  found  in 
"  Hudibras."  The  still  higher  faculty  of  invention,  Addison  pos- 
sessed in  still  larger  measure.  The  numerous  fictions,  generally 
original,  often  wild  and  grotesque,  but  always  singularly  graceful 
and  happy,  which  are  found  in  his  essays,  fully  entitle  him  to  the 
rank  of  a  great  poet,  —  a  rank  to  which  his  metrical  compositions 
give  him  no  claim.  As  an  observer  of  life,  of  manners,  of  all 
the  shades  of  human  character,  he  stands  in  the  first  class ;  and 
what  he  observed  he  had  the  art  of  communicating  in  two  widely 
different  ways.  He  could  describe  virtues,  vices,  habits,  whims, 
as  well  as  Clarendon. ^     But  he  could  do  something  better:   he 

1  Earl  of  Orford  (1707-97),  son  of  Sir  Robert  Walpole.  At  his  seat  at 
Strawberry  Hill,  near  London,  he  formed  a  collection  of  books,  manuscripts, 
pictures,  and  other  works  of  art,  and  wrote  several  works.  His  incompara- 
ble Letters  are  the  best  of  his  writings. 

2  Abraham  Cowley  (1618-67),  greatly  esteemed  as  a  poet  in  his  day,  au- 
thor of  an  epic  poem,  the  Davideis,  and  a  series  of  amatory  poems  now  little 
read.      His  prose  essays  are  written  in  a  very  easy  and  graceful  style. 

3  Samuel  Butler  (1612-80),  author  of  Hudibras,  a  long  mock-heroic  poem 
ridiculing  the  Puritans  or  Roundheads. 

4  A  famous  portrait  painter  (1648-1723),  born  in  Germany,  but  who  re. 
sided  most  of  his  life  in  England.  He  painted  the  Hampton  Court  beauties 
for  William  HI. 

5  Edward  Hyde,  Earl  of  Clarendon  (1608-74),  lord  high  chancellor  in  the 
reign  of  Charles  I.,  and  author  of  a  History  of  the  Rebellion. 


THE   LIFE  AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON,  75 

could  call  human  beings  into  existence,  and  make  them  exhibit 
themselves.  If  we  wish  to  find  anything  more  vivid  than  Ad- 
dison's best  portraits,  we  must  go  either  to  Shakespeare  or  to 
Cervantes.^ 

But  what  shall  we  say  of  Addison's  humor,  of  his  sense  of  the 
ludicrous,  of  his  power  of  awakening  that  sense  in  others,  and 
of  drawing  mirth  from  incidents  which  occur  every  day,  and  from 
little  peculiarities  of  temper  and  manner  such  as  may  be  found 
in  every  man  ?  We  feel  the  charm  ;  we  give  ourselves  up  to  it : 
but  we  strive  in  vain  to  analyze  it. 

Perhaps  the  best  way  of  describing  Addison's  pecuHar  pleas- 
antry is  to  compare  it  with  the  pleasantry  of  some  other  great 
satirists.  The  three  most  eminent  masters  of  the  art  of  ridicule 
during  the  eighteenth  century  were,  we  conceive,  Addison,  Swift, 
and  Voltaire.  Which  of  the  three  had  the  greatest  power  of 
moving  laughter  may  be  questioned ;  but  each  of  them,  within 
his  own  domain,  was  supreme. 

^rVoltaire  is  the  prince  of  buffoons.  His  merriment  is  without 
disguise  or  restraint.  He  gambols  ;  he  grins  ;  he  shakes  the  sides  ; 
he  points  the  finger ;  he  turns  up  the  nose ;  he  shoots  out  the 
tongue.  The  manner  of  Swift  is  the  very  opposite  to  this.  He 
moves  laughter,  but  never  joins  in  it.  He  appears  in  his  works 
such  as  he  appeared  in  society.  All  the  company  are  convulsed 
with  merriment ;  while  the  Dean,  the  author  of  all  the  mirth,  pre- 
serves an  invincible  gravity  and  even  sourness  of  aspect,  and  gives 
utterance  to  the  most  eccentric  and  ludicrous  fancies  with  the 
air  of  a  man  reading  the  commination  service.^ 

The  manner  of  Addison  is  as  remote  from  that  of  Swift  as  from 
that  of  Voltaire.  He  neither  laughs  out  hke  the  French  wit,  nor, 
like  the  Irish  wit,  throws  a  double  portion  of  severity  into  his 
countenance  while  laughing  inwardly,  but  preserves  a  look  pecul- 

1  The  most  illustrious  of  Spanish  writers  (i  547-1616),  author  of  the 
immortal  Don  Quixote. 

2  A  service  of  the  English  Church,  read  on  Ash  Wednesday,  and  contain- 
ing a  recital  of  God's  anger  and  judgments  against  sinners. 


7^  MAC  AULA  Y, 

iarly  his  own, — a  look  of  demure  serenity,  disturbed  only  by  an 
arch  sparkle  of  the  eye,  an  almost  imperceptible  elevation  of  the 
brow,  an  almost  imperceptible  curl  of  the  lip.  His  tone  is  never 
that  either  of  a  Jack  Pudding  ^  or  of  a  Cynic.^  It  is  that  of  a  gen- 
tleman in  whom  the  quickest  sense  of  the  ridiculous  is  constantly 
tempered  by  good  nature  and  good  breeding. 

We  own  that  the  humor  of  Addison  is,  in  our  opinion,  of  more 
delicious  flavor  than  the  humor  of  either  Swift  or  Voltaire.  Thus 
much,  at  least,  is  certain,  that  both  Swift  and  Voltaire  have  been 
successfully  mimicked,  and  that  no  man  has  yet  been  able  to 
mimic  Addison.  The  letter  of  the  Abbe  Coyer  to  Pansophe  is 
Voltaire  all  over,  and  imposed,  during  a  long  time,  on  the  Aca- 
demicians of  Paris.  There  are  passages  in  Arbuthnot's  ^  satirical 
works  which  we,  at  least,  cannot  distinguish  from  Swift's  best 
writing.  But  of  the  many  eminent  men  who  have  made  Addi- 
son their  model,  though  several  have  copied  his  mere  diction 
with  happy  effect,  none  has  been  able  to  catch  the  tone  of  his 
pleasantry.  In  the  ''  World,"  in  the  *'  Connoisseur,"  in  the 
"  Mirror,"  in  the  "  Lounger,"  there  are  numerous  papers  written 
in  obvious  imitation  of  his  ''  Tatlers  "  and  '^  Spectators."  Most 
of  those  papers  have  some  merit ;  many  are  very  lively  and  amus- 
ing ;  but  there  is  not  a  single  one  which  could  be  passed  off  as 
Addison's  on  a  critic  of  the  smallest  perspicacity. 

But  that  which  chiefly  distinguishes  Addison  from  Swift,  from 
Voltaire,  from  almost  all  the  other  great  masters  of  ridicule,  is 
the  grace,  the  nobleness,  the  moral  purity,  which  we  find  even 
in  his  merriment.     Severity,  gradually  hardening  and  darkening 

1  A  buffoon  who  performs  tricks,  such  as  the  swallowing  of  a  certain 
number  of  yards  of  black  pudding,  etc. 

2  A  sect  of  philosophers  among  the  Greeks ;  so  called  from  their  snarling 
humor  and  their  disregard  of  the  conventional  usages  of  society. 

2  Dr.  John  Arbuthnot  (1667-1735),  physician  to  Queen  Anne,  the  friend 
of  Swift  and  Pope.  He  was  a  wit  and  man  of  letters,  author  of  the  Memoirs 
of  Martinus  Scriblerus,  one  of  the  finest  pieces  of  sarcastic  humor  in  the 
English  language,  and  also  of  a  number  of  scientific  works. 


THE  LIFE  AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON  77 

into  misanthropy,  characterizes  the  works  of  Swift.  The  nature 
of  Voltaire  was,  indeed,  not  inhuman ;  but  he  venerated  nothing. 
Neither  in  the  masterpieces  of  art  nor  in  the  purest  examples  of 
virtue,  neither  in  the  Great  First  Cause  nor  in  the  awful  enigma 
of  the  grave,  could  he  see  anything  but  subjects  for  drollery. 
The  more  solemn  and  august  the  theme,  the  more  monkey-like 
was  his  grimacing  and  chattering.  The  mirth  of  Swift  is  the 
mirth  of  Mephistopheles  ;i  the  mirth  of  Voltaire  is  the  mirth  of 
Puck.2  If,  as  Soame  Jenyns  ^  oddly  imagined,  a  portion  of  the 
happiness  of  seraphim  and  just  men  made  perfect  be  derived 
from  an  exquisite  perception  of  the  ludicrous,  their  mirth  must 
surely  be  none  other  than  the  mirth  of  Addison,  —  a  mirth  consist- 
ent with  tender  compassion  for  all  that  is  frail,  and  with  profound 
reverence  for  all  that  is  sublime.  Nothing  great,  nothing  amia- 
ble, no  moral  duty,  no  doctrine  of  natural  or  revealed  religion, 
has  ever  been  associated  by  Addison  with  any  degrading  idea. 
His  humanity  is  without  a  parallel  in  literary  history.  The  high- 
est proof  of  virtue  is  to  possess  boundless  power  without  abusing 
it.  No  kind  of  power  is  more  formidable  than  the  power  of  mak- 
ing men  ridiculous  ;  and  that  power  Addison  possessed  in  bound- 
less measure.  How  grossly  that  power  was  abused  by  Swift  and 
by  Voltaire  is  well  known.  But  of  Addison  it  may  be  confidently 
affirmed  that  he  has  blackened  no  man's  character,  nay,  that  it 
would  be  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to  find  in  all  the  volumes 
which  he  has  left  us  a  single  taunt  which  can  be  called  ungener- 
ous or  unkind.  Yet  he  had  detractors,  whose  malignity  might 
have  seemed  to  justify  as  terrible  a  revenge  as  that  which  men 
not  superior  to  him  in  genius  wreaked  on  Bettesworth  and  on 
Franc  de  Pompignan.^     He  was  a  politician ;  he  was  the  best 

1  A  sneering,  jeering  tempter,  next  to  Satan  himself. 

2  The  "  tricksy"  spirit  in  Shakespeare's  Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 

3  Soame  Jenyns  (1704-87),  author,  among  other  religious  works,  of  a  View 
of  the  Internal  Evidence  of  the  Christian  Religion. 

4  Jean  Jacques  le  Franc,  Marquis  of  Pompignan,  a  French  writer,  who, 
when  elected  member  of  the  Academy  in  1760,  delivered  a  discourse  in  de- 


78  MAC  AULA  Y, 

writer  of  his  party  ;  he  lived  in  times  of  fierce  excitement,  in  times 
when  persons  of  high  character  and  station  stooped  to  scurriHty 
such  as  is  now  practiced  only  by  the  basest  of  mankind :  yet 
no  provocation  and  no  example  could  induce  him  to  return  rail- 
ing for  railing. 

Of  the  service  which  his  essays  rendered  to  morality  it  is 
difficult  to  speak  too  highly.  It  is  true  that,  when  the  "  Tatler  " 
appeared,  that  age  of  outrageous  profaneness  and  licentiousness 
which  followed  the  Restoration  had  passed  away.  Jeremy  Col- 
lier 1  had  shamed  the  theaters  into  something  which,  compared 
with  the  excesses  of  Etherege  "  and  Wycherley,^  might  be  called 
decency ;  yet  there  still  lingered  in  the  public  mind  a  pernicious 
notion  that  there  was  some  connection  between  genius  and  prof- 
ligacy, between  the  domestic  virtues  and  the  sullen  formality  of 
the  Puritans.  That  error  it  is  the  glory  of  Addison  to  have  dis- 
pelled. He  taught  the  nation  that  the  faith  and  the  morality  of 
Hale  ^  and  Tillotson  might  be  found  in  company  with  wit  more 
sparkling  than  the  wit  of  Congreve,  and  with  humor  richer  than 
the  humor  of  Vanbrugh.^  So  effectually,  indeed,  did  he  retort 
on  vice  the  mockery  which  had  recently  been  directed  against 
virtue,   that  since  his  time   the  open  violation  of  decency  has 

fense  of  Christianity,  which  drew  upon  him  a  number  of  satires  and  lampoons 
from  Voltaire  and  others. 

1  A  nonjuring  preacher  in  the  English  Church  (1650-1736),  author  of 
Short  View  of  the  Profaneness  and  Immorality  of  the  English  Stage,  for 
which  he  has  been  most  justly  praised. 

2  Sir  George  Etherege  (1636-94),  a  dramatist  of  the  Restoration.  He 
was  the  inventor  of  the  comedy  of  intrigue,  which  reached  its  perfection  in 
Congreve. 

3  William  Wycherley  (1640-1715),  author  of  several  brilliant  but  licentious 
comedies  produced  on  the  stage  during  the  reign  of  Charles  II. 

*  Sir  Matthew  Hale  (1609-76),  a  celebrated  lawyer,  who,  after  vain  at- 
tempts to  effect  a  settlement  between  Charles  I.  and  the  Parliament,  ultimately 
sided  with  the   Commonwealth,   and  was  made  a  judge  under  Cromwell  in 

1653- 

5  Sir  John  Vanbrugh  (i 666-1 726),  a  dramatist  and  architect.  His  plays 
exceed  in  grossness  any  of  the  comic  dramas  of  the  period. 


THE   LIFE  AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON  79 

always  been  considered  among  us  as  the  mark  of  a  fool.  And 
this  revolution,  the  greatest  and  most  salutary  ever  effected  by 
any  satirist,  he  accomplished,  be  it  remembered,  without  writing 
one  personal  lampoon. 

In  the  early  contributions  of  Addison  to  the  "Tatler  "  his  peculiar 
powers  were  not  fully  exhibited  ;  yet  from  the  first  his  superiority 
to  all  his  coadjutors  was  evident.  Some  of  his  later  "  Tatlers  "  are 
fully  equal  to  anything  that  he  ever  wrote.  Among  the  portraits, 
we  most  admire  Tom  Foho,  Ned  Softly,  and  the  Political  Uphol- 
sterer. The  proceedings  of  the  "  Court  of  Honor,"  the  ''  Ther- 
mometer of  Zeal,"  the  story  of  the  "  Frozen  Words,"  the  *'  Memoirs 
of  the  Shining,"  are  excellent  specimens  of  that  ingenious  and 
lively  species  of  fiction  in  which  Addison  excelled  all  men.  There 
is  one  still  better  paper  of  the  same  class ;  but  though  that  paper, 
a  hundred  and  thirty-three  years  ago,  was  probably  thought  as 
edifying  as  one  of  Smalridge's  sermons,  we  dare  not  indicate  it 
to  the  squeamish  readers  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

During  the  session  of  Parliament  which  commenced  in  Novem- 
ber, 1709,  and  which  the  impeachment  of  Sacheverell  has  made 
memorable,  Addison  appears  to  have  resided  in  London.  The 
"Tatler"  was  now  more  popular  than  any  periodical  paper  had 
ever  been,  and  his  connection  with  it  was  generally  known  :  it  was 
not  known,  however,  that  almost  everything  good  in  the  "  Tatler  " 
was  his.  The  truth  is,  that  the  fifty  or  sixty  numbers  which  we 
owe  to  him  were  not  merely  the  best,  but  so  decidedly  the  best, 
that  any  five  of  them  are  more  valuable  than  all  the  two  hundred 
numbers  in  which  he  had  no  share. 

He  required  at  this  time  all  the  solace  which  he  could  derive 
from  literary  success.  The  Queen  had  always  disliked  the  Whigs. 
She  had  during  some  years  dishked  the  Marlborough  family: 
but,  reigning  by  a  disputed  title,  she  could  not  venture  directly 
to  oppose  herself  to  a  majority  of  both  houses  of  Parliament; 
and,  engaged  as  she  was  in  a  war  on  the  event  of  which  her 
own  crown  was  staked,  she  could  not  venture  to  disgrace  a  great 
and  successful  general.    But  at  length,  in  the  year  1710,  the  causes 


8o  MAC  AULA  Y. 

which  had  restrained  her  from  showing  her  aversion  to  the  Low 
Church  party  ceased  to  operate.  The  trial  of  Sacheverell  pro- 
duced an  outbreak  of  pubHc  feeling  scarcely  less  violent  than  the 
outbreaks  which  we  can  ourselves  remember  in  1820  and  in  1831. 
The  country  gentlemen,  the  country  clergymen,  the  rabble  of  the 
towns,  were  all,  for  once,  on  the  same  side.  It  was  clear  that, 
if  a  general  election  took  place  before  the  excitement  abated, 
the  Tories  would  have  a  majority.  The  services  of  Marlborough 
had  been  so  splendid  that  they  were  no  longer  necessary.  The 
Queen's  throne  was  secure  from  all  attack  on  the  part  of  Louis :  ^ 
indeed,  it  seemed  much  more  Hkely  that  the  English  and  Ger- 
man armies  would  divide  the  spoils  of  Versailles  and  Marli  2  than 
that  a  marshal  of  France  would  bring  back  the  Pretender  ^  to 
St.  James's.^  The  Queen,  acting  by  the  advice  of  Harley,  deter- 
mined to  dismiss  her  servants.  In  June  the  change  commenced. 
Sunderland  was  the  first  who  fell.  The  Tories  exulted  over  his 
fall.  The  Whigs  tried,  during  a  few  weeks,  to  persuade  them- 
selves that  her  Majesty  had  acted  only  from  personal  dislike  to 
the  secretary,  and  that  she  meditated  no  further  alteration ;  but, 
early  in  August,  Godolphin  was  surprised  by  a  letter  from  Anne, 
which  directed  him  to  break  his  white  staff.  Even  after  this 
event,  the  irresolution  or  dissimulation  of  Harley  kept  up  the 
hopes  of  the  Whigs  during  another  month,  and  then  the  ruin 
became  rapid  and  violent.  The  Parliament  was  dissolved.  The 
ministers  were  turned  out.  The  Tories  were  called  to  office. 
The  tide  of  popularity  ran  violently  in  favor  of  the  High  Church 

1  Louis  XIV. 

2  Versailles,  twelve  miles  from  Paris,  was  the  seat  of  the  royal  palace  built 
by  Louis  XIV.  Marli,  five  miles  north  of  Versailles,  was  famous  for  the 
sumptuous  chateau  erected  there  at  great  expense  by  the  same  monarch. 

3  James  Francis  Edward  Stuart  (1688-1766),  son  of  James  II.,  and 
claiming  succession  to  the  English  throne  for  himself  and  his  son  Charles 
Edward. 

4  St.  James's  Palace  in  London  became,  after  1697,  a  residence  of  the 
British  sovereigns,  and  so  remained  until  Queen  Victoria's  time :  hence  the 
British  court  is  often  referred  to  as  the  Court  of  St.  James. 


THE  LIFE  AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON.  8 1 

party.  That  party,  feeble  in  the  late  House  of  Commons,  was 
now  irresistible.  The  power  which  the  Tories  had  thus  suddenly 
acquired,  they  used  with  blind  and  stupid  ferocity.  The  howl 
which  the  whole  pack  set  up  for  prey  and  for  blood  appalled 
even  him  who  had  roused  and  unchained  them.  When,  at  this 
distance  of  time,  we  calmly  review  the  conduct  of  the  discarded 
ministers,  we  cannot  but  feel  a  movement  of  indignation  at  the 
injustice  with  which  they  were  treated.  No  body  of  men  had 
ever  administered  the  government  with  more  energy,  ability,  and 
moderation  ;  and  their  success  had  been  proportioned  to  their  wis- 
dom. They  had  saved  Holland  and  Germany.  They  had  hum- 
bled France.  They  had,  as  it  seemed,  all  but  torn  Spain  from 
the  house  of  Bourbon.  They  had  made  England  the  first  power 
in  Europe.  At  home  they  had  united  England  and  Scotland.^ 
They  had  respected  the  rights  of  conscience  and  the  liberty  of 
the  subject.  They  retired,  leaving  their  country  at  the  height 
of  prosperity  and  glory.  And  yet  they  were  pursued  to  their 
retreat  by  such  a  roar  of  obloquy  as  was  never  raised  against 
the  government  which  threw  away  thirteen  colonies,"  or  against 
the  government  which  sent  a  gallant  army  to  perish  in  the  ditches 
of  Walcheren.^ 

None  of  the  Whigs  suffered  more  in  the  general  wreck  than 
Addison.  He  had  just  sustained  some  heavy  pecuniary  losses, 
of  the  nature  of  which  we  are  imperfectly  informed,  when  his 
secretaryship  was  taken  from  him.  He  had  reason  to  believe 
that  he  should  also  be  deprived  of  the  small  Irish  office  which 
he  held  by  patent.  He  had  just  resigned  his  fellowship.  It 
seems  probable  that  he  had  already  ventured  to  raise  his  eyes  to 
a  great  lady,  and  that  while  his  political  friends  were  in  power, 

1  The  union  of  England  and  Scodand  under  the  name  of  *'  Great  Britain  " 
was  established  by  act  of  Parliament,  July  22,  1706. 

2  In  America  in  1776. 

3  An  island  in  the  Dutch  province  of  Zealand.  The  Walcheren  expedition 
against  Napoleon  was  planned  in  1806,  and  ended  disastrously,  seven  thou- 
sand men  dying  of  malaria. 

6 


82  ,  MAC  AULA  Y. 

and  while  his  own  fortunes  were  rising,  he  had  been,  in  the  phrase 
of  the  romances  which  were  then  fashionable,  "permitted  to  hope." 
But  Mr.  Addison  the  ingenious  writer,  and  Mr.  Addison  the  chief 
secretary,  were,  in  her  ladyship's  opinion,  two  very  different  per- 
sons. All  these  calamities  united,  however,  could  not  disturb  the 
serene  cheerfulness  of  a  mind  conscious  of  innocence,  and  rich 
in  its  own  wealth.  He  told  his  friends,  with  smiling  resignation, 
that  they  ought  to  admire  his  philosophy ;  that  he  had  lost  at 
once  his  fortune,  his  place,  his  fellowship,  and  his  mistress ;  that 
he  must  think  of  turning  tutor  again  :  and  yet  that  his  spirits  were 
as  good  as  ever. 

He  had  one  consolation.  Of  the  unpopularity  which  his  friends 
had  incurred,  he  had  no  share.  Such  was  the  esteem  with  which 
he  was  regarded,  that,  while  the  most  violent  measures  were  taken 
for  the  purpose  of  forcing  Tory  members  on  Whig  corporations, 
he  was  returned  to  Parliament  without  even  a  contest.  Swift, 
who  was  now  in  London,  and  who  had  already  determined  on 
quitting  the  Whigs,  wrote  to  Stella  in  these  remarkable  words : 
''  The  Tories  carry  it  among  the  new  members  six  to  one.  Mr. 
Addison's  election  has  passed  easy  and  undisputed,  and  I  believe, 
if  he  had  a  mind  to  be  king,  he  would  hardly  be  refused." 

The  good  will  with  which  the  Tories  regarded  Addison  is  the 
more  honorable  to  him,  because  it  had  not  been  purchased  by 
any  concession  on  his  part.  During  the  general  election,  he  pub- 
lished a  political  journal  entitled  the  "  Whig  Examiner."  Of  that 
journal  it  may  be  sufficient  to  say,  that  Johnson,  in  spite  of  his 
strong  poHtical  prejudices,  pronounced  it  to  be  superior  in  wit 
to  any  of  Swift's  writings  on  the  other  side.  When  it  ceased  to 
appear.  Swift,  in  a  letter  to  Stella,  expressed  his  exultation  at  the 
death  of  so  formidable  an  antagonist.  ''He  might  well  rejoice," 
says  Johnson,  "  at  the  death  of  that  which  he  could  not  have 
killed."  "  On  no  occasion,"  he  adds,  "  was  the  genius  of  Addi- 
son more  vigorously  Exerted,  and  on  none  did  the  superiority  of 
his  powers  more  evidently  appear." 

The  only  use  which  Addison  appears  to  have  made  of  the  favor 


THE  LIFE  AND    WRITINGS  OF  ADDISON.  ^2> 

with  which  he  was  regarded  by  the  Tories  was  to  save  some  of 
his  friends  from  the  general  ruin  of  the  Whig  party.  He  felt 
himself  to  be  in  a  situation  which  made  it  his  duty  to  take  a 
decided  part  in  pohtics.  But  the  case  of  Steele  and  of  Ambrose 
Philips  was  different.  For  Philips,  Addison  even  condescended 
to  sohcit,  with  what  success  we  have  not  ascertained.  Steele 
held  two  places :  he  was  gazetteer,  and  he  was  also  a  commis- 
sioner of  stamps.  The  gazette  was  taken  from  him ;  but  he  was 
suffered  to  retain  his  place  in  the  Stamp  Office  on  an  implied 
understanding  that  he  should  not  be  active  against  the  new  gov- 
ernment ;  and  he  was,  during  more  than  two  years,  induced  by 
Addison  to  observe  this  armistice  with  tolerable  fidelity. 

Isaac  Bickerstaff  accordingly  became  silent  upon  politics,  and 
the  article  of  news  which  had  once  formed  about  one  third  of 
his  paper  altogether  disappeared.  The  *'  Tatler  "  had  completely 
changed  its  character :  it  was  now  nothing  but  a  series  of  essays 
on  books,  morals,  and  manners.  Steele,  therefore,  resolved  to 
bring  it  to  a  close,  and  to  commence  a  new  work  on  an  improved 
plan.  It  was  announced  that  this  new  work  would  be  pubhshed 
daily.  The  undertaking  was  generally  regarded  as  bold,  or  rather 
rash ;  but  the  event  amply  justified  the  confidence  with  which 
Steele  relied  on  the  fertihty  of  Addison's  genius.  On  the  2d  of 
January,  171 1,  appeared  the  last  "Tatler."  At  the  beginning 
of  March  following,  appeared  the  first  of  an  incomparable  series 
of  papers,  containing  observations  on  life  and  literature  by  an 
imaginary  Spectator. 

The  Spectator  himself  was  conceived  and  drawn  by  Addison ; 
and  it  is  not  easy  to  doubt  that  the  portrait  was  meant  to  be  in 
some  features  a  likeness  of  the  painter.  The  Spectator  is  a  gen- 
tleman who,  after  passing  a  studious  youth  at  the  university,  has 
traveled  on  classic  ground,  and  has  bestowed  much  attention  on 
curious  points  of  antiquity.  He  has,  on  his  return,  fixed  his  resi- 
dence in  London,  and  has  observed  all  the  forms  of  life  which 
are  to  be  found  in  that  great  city,  has  daily  listened  to  the  wits 
of  Will's,  has  smoked  with  the  philosophers  of  the  Grecian,  and 


84  MACAULAY, 

has  mingled  with  the  parsons  at  Child's  and  with  the  politicians 
at  the  St.  James's.i  In  the  morning  he  often  listens  to  the  hum 
of  the  Exchange ;  in  the  evening  his  face  is  constantly  to  be 
seen  in  the  pit  of  Drury  Lane  Theater.  But  an  insurmountable 
bashfulness  prevents  him  from  opening  his  mouth,  except  in  a 
small  circle  of  intimate  friends.  *- 

These  friends  were  first  sketched  by  Steele.  Four  of  the  club 
—  the  templar,  the  clergyman,  the  soldier,  and  the  merchant — were 
uninteresting  figures,  fit  only  for  a  background;  but  the  other 
two, —  an  old  country  baronet  and  an  old  town  rake, —  though  not 
delineated  with  a  very  delicate  pencil,  had  some  good  strokes. 
Addison  took  the  rude  outlines  into  his  own  hands,  retouched 
them,  colored  them,  and  is  in  truth  the  creator  of  the  Sir  Roger 
de  Coverley  and  the  Will  Honeycomb  with  whom  we  are  all 
familiar. 

The  plan  of  the  Spectator  must  be  allowed  to  be  both  original 
and  eminently  happy.  Every  valuable  essay  in  the  series  may  be 
read  with  pleasure  separately ;  yet  the  five  or  six  hundred  essays 
form  a  whole,  and  a  whole  which  has  the  interest  of  a  novel.  It 
must  be  remembered,  too,  that  at  that  time  no  novel  giving  a 
lively  and  powerful  picture  of  the  common  hfe  and  manners  of 
England  had  appeared.  Richardson  ^  was  working  as  a  com- 
positor. Fielding  was  robbing  birds'  nests.  Smollett  ^  was  not 
yet  born.  The  narrative,  therefore,  which  connects  together  the 
Spectator's  essays  gave  to  our  ancestors  their  first  taste  of  an 
exquisite  and  untried  pleasure.  That  narrative  was  indeed  con- 
structed with  no  art  or  labor.  The  events  were  such  events  as 
occur  every  day.  Sir  Roger  comes  up  to  town  to  see  Eugenio, 
as  the  worthy  baronet  always  calls  Prince  Eugene,  goes  with  the 

"^  Child's  and  St.  James's,  well-known  clubs  in  London  of  that  time. 

2  Samuel  Richardson  (i 689-1 761),  author  of  Pamela,  Clarissa  Harlowe, 
and  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  prolix  and  sentimental  novels,  once  very  popular, 
but  now  little  read. 

3  Tobias  Smollett  (1721-71),  novelist  and  historian,  author  of  Roderick 
Random,  Humphrey  Clinker,  and  other  novels,  and  of  a  History  of  England. 


THE  LIFE  AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON  85 

Spectator  on  the  water  to  Spring  Gardens/  walks  among  the 
tombs  in  the  Abbey,  and  is  frightened  by  the  Mohawks,^  but 
conquers  his  apprehension  so  far  as  to  go  to  the  theater  when 
the  '*  Distressed  Mother"^  is  acted.  The  Spectator  pays  a  visit 
in  the  summer  to  Coverley  Hall,  is  charmed  with  the  old  house, 
the  old  butler,  and  the  old  chaplain,  eats  a  jack  caught  by  Will 
Wimble,  rides  to  the  assizes,  and  hears  a  point  of  law  discussed 
by  Tom  Touchy.  At  last  a  letter  from  the  honest  butler  brings 
to  the  club  the  news  that  Sir  Roger  is  dead.  Will  Honeycomb 
marries  and  reforms  at  sixty.  The  club  breaks  up,  and  the  Spec- 
tator resigns  his  functions.  Such  events  can  hardly  be  said  to 
form  a  plot ;  yet  they  are  related  with  such  truth,  such  grace, 
such  wit,  such  humor,  such  pathos,  such  knowledge  of  the  human 
heart,  such  knowledge  of  the  ways  of  the  world,  that  they  charm 
us  on  the  hundredth  perusal.  We  have  not  the  least  doubt,  that, 
if  Addison  had  written  a  novel  on  an  extensive  plan,  it  would 
have  been  superior  to  any  that  we  possess.  As  it  is,  he  is  entitled 
to  be  considered  not  only  as  the  greatest  of  the  EngHsh  essayists, 
but  as  the  forerunner  of  the  great  English  novelists. 

We  say  this  of  Addison  alone ;  for  Addison  is  the  Spectator. 
About  three  sevenths  of  the  work  are  his ;  and  it  is  no  exaggera- 
tion to  say  that  his  worst  essay  is  as  good  as  the  best  essay  of 
any  of  his  coadjutors.  His  best  essays  approach  near  to  abso- 
lute perfection ;  nor  is  their  excellence  more  wonderful  than  their 
variety.  His  invention  never  seems  to  flag  ;  nor  is  he  ever  under 
the  necessity  of  repeating  himself,  or  of  wearing  out  a  subject. 
There  are  no  dregs  in  his  wine.  He  regales  us  after  the  fashion 
of  that  prodigal  nabob  who  held  that  there  was  only  one  good 
glass  in  a  bottle.  As  soon  as  we  have  tasted  the  first  sparkling 
foam  of  a  jest,  it  is  withdrawn,  and  a  fresh  draught  of  nectar  is 

1  A  place  of  resort  for  outdoor  amusements  in  London. 

2  The  Mohawks,  or  Mohocks,  were  an  infamous  club  of  profligate  young 
men,  who,  under  cover  of  darkness,  assaulted  wayfarers,  men  and  women,  in 
the  streets.     They  were  finally  suppressed  by  royal  proclamation. 

3  A  play  by  Ambrose  Philips,  for  which  Addison  wrote  a  prologue. 


86  MACAULAY. 

at  our  lips.  On  the  Monday  we  have  an  allegory  as  lively  and 
ingenious  as  Lucian's  ''Auction  of  Lives  ;"i  on  the  Tuesday,  an 
Eastern  apologue  as  richly  colored  as  the  tales  of  Schehere- 
zade ;  ^  on  the  Wednesday,  a  character  described  with  the  skill 
of  La  Bruyere ;  ^  on  the  Thursday,  a  scene  from  common  life 
equal  to  the  best  chapters  in  the  ''  Vicar  of  Wakefield ;  "  ^  on  the 
Friday,  some  sly  Horatian  pleasantry  on  fashionable  follies,  on 
hoops,  patches,  or  puppet  shows  ;  and  on  the  Saturday,  a  religious 
meditation  which  will  bear  a  comparison  with  the  finest  pas- 
sages in  Massillon.^  » 

It  is  dangerous  to  select  where  there  is  so  much  that  deserves 
the  highest  praise.  We  will  venture,  however,  to  say  that  any 
person  who  wishes  to  form  a  just  notion  of  the  extent  and  variety 
of  Addison's  powers  will  do  well  to  read  at  one  sitting  the  fol- 
lowing papers,  —  the  two  "  Visits  to  the  Abbey,"  the  '*  Visit  to  the 
Exchange,"  the  ''Journal  of  the  Retired  Citizen,"  the  "Vision 
of  Mirza,"  the  "  Transmigrations  of  Pug  the  Monkey,"  and  the 
"  Death  of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley." 

The  least  valuable  of  Addison's  contributions  to  the  "  Specta- 
tor "  are,  in  the  judgment  of  our  age,  his  critical  papers  ;   yet  his 

1  Lucian,  a  celebrated  Greek  author  born  during  the  reign  of  the  Roman 
Emperor  Trajan.  His  works  are  mostly  in  the  form  of  dialogues,  written  in 
an  elegant  and  witty  style,  ridiculing  the  Pagan  mythology  and  the  sects  of 
philosophers. 

2  The  Arabian  Nights.  A  certain  Persian  King  married  a  new  bride  every 
day,  and  put  her  to  death  the  next  morning.  One  of  these,  Scheherezade, 
more  discreet  than  the  rest,  one  evening  began  telling  the  King  a  story,  which 
she  broke  off  late  at  night  at  such  an  interesting  point  that  the  King  next  morn- 
ing spared  her  life,  and  at  night  begged  her  to  resume  the  tale.  This  she  did 
for  one  thousand  nights. 

3  A  French  moralist  and  novelist  (1644-96),  whose  chief  work,  the 
Characters,  placed  him  in  the  highest  rank  as  a  master  of  style. 

*  A  novel  by  Oliver  Goldsmith  (1728-74),  and  one  of  the  classics  of 
English  literature. 

^  A  famous  French  preacher  (1663-1742),  whose  discourses  were  dis- 
tinguished for  their  simplicity,  eloquence,  and  knowledge  of  the  human 
heart. 


THE   LIFE   AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON.  87 

critical  papers  are  always  luminous,  and  often  ingenious.  The  very- 
worst  of  them  must  be  regarded  as  creditable  to  him,  when  the 
character  of  the  school  in  which  he  had  been  trained  is  fairly 
considered.  The  best  of  them  were  much  too  good  for  his  read- 
ers. In  truth,  he  was  not  so  far  behind  our  generation  as  he  was 
before  his  own.  No  essays  in  the  ''  Spectator  "  were  more  cen- 
sured and  derided  than  those  in  which  he  raised  his  voice  against 
the  contempt  with  which  our  fine  old  ballads  were  regarded,  and 
showed  the  scoffers  that  the  same  gold  which,  burnished  and  pol- 
ished, gives  luster  to  the  ''^neid"  and  the  "Odes  of  Horace" 
is  mingled  with  the  rude  dross  of  '^  Chevy  Chace."  1 

It  is  not  strange  that  the  success  of  the  "  Spectator  "  should  have 
been  such  as  no  simliar  work  has  ever  obtained.  The  number 
of  copies  daily  distributed  was  at  first  three  thousand.  It  sub- 
sequently increased,  and  had  risen  to  near  four  thousand  when 
the  stamp  tax  was  imposed.  That  tax  was  fatal  to  a  crowd  of 
journals.  The  "  Spectator,"  however,  stood  its  ground,  doubled 
its  price,  and,  though  its  circulation  fell  off,  still  yielded  a  large 
revenue  both  to  the  state  and  to  the  authors.  For  particular 
papers,  the  demand  was  immense ;  of  some,  it  is  said,  twenty 
thousand  copies  were  required.  But  this  was  not  all.  To  have 
the  "  Spectator"  served  up  every  morning  with  the  bohea  and  rolls 
was  a  luxury  for  the  few.  The  majority  were  content  to  wait 
till  essays  enough  had  appeared  to  form  a  volume.  Ten  thousand 
copies  of  each  volume  were  immediately  taken  off,  and  new 
editions  were  called  for.  It  must  be  remembered  that  the  popu- 
lation of  England  was  then  hardier  a  third  of  what  it  now  is. 
The  number  of  Enghshmen  who  were  in  the  habit  of  reading 
was  probably  not  a  sixth  of  what  it  now  is.  A  shopkeeper  or  a 
farmer  who  found  any  pleasure  in  literature  was  a  rarity.  Nay, 
there  was  doubtless  more  than  one  knight  of  the  shire  whose 
country  seat  did  not  contain  ten  books,  receipt  books  and  books 
on  farriery  included.     In  these  circumstances,  the  sale  of  the 

1  A  famous  old  English  ballad,  commemorating  the  battle  of  Otterburn  in 
1388  between  the  English  and  the  Scotch,  in  which  the  Scots  were  victorious. 


88  MACAULAY, 

"  Spectator  "  must  be  considered  as  indicating  a  popularity  quite 
as  great  as  that  of  the  most  successful  works  of  Sir  Walter  Scott 
and  Mr.  Dickens  ^  in  our  own  time. 

At  the  close  of  1 7 1 2  the  "  Spectator  "  ceased  to  appear.  It 
was  probably  felt  that  the  short-faced  gentleman  and  his  club  had 
been  long  enough  before  the  town,  and  that  it  was  time  to  with- 
draw them,  and  to  replace  them  by  a  new  set  of  characters.  In 
a  few  weeks  the  first  number  of  the  "  Guardian  "  was  published ; 
but  the  ^'  Guardian  "  was  unfortunate  both  in  its  birth  and  in  its 
death.  It  began  in  dullness,  and  disappeared  in  a  tempest  of 
faction.  The  original  plan  was  bad.  Addison  contributed  noth- 
ing till  sixty-six  numbers  had  appeared  ;  and  it  was  then  impossible 
to  make  the,"  Guardian  "  what  the  "Spectator  "  had  been.  Nes- 
tor Ironside  and  the  Miss  Lizards  were  people  to  whom  even  he 
could  impart  no  interest.  He  could  only  furnish  some  excellent 
little  essays,  both  serious  and  comic ;  and  this  he  did. 

Why  Addison  gave  no  assistance  to  the  "  Guardian  "  during  the 
first  two  months  of  its  existence  is  a  question  which  has  puzzled 
the  editors  and  biographers,  but  which  seems  to  us  to  admit  of 
a  very  easy  solution.  He  was  then  engaged  in  bringing  his 
"  Cato  "  2,  on  the  stage. 

The  first  four  acts  of  this  drama  had  been  lying  in  his  desk 
since  his  return  from  Itaty.  His  modest  and  sensitive  nature 
shrank  from  the  risk  of  a  pubHc  and  shameful  failure;  and, 
though  all  who  saw  the  manuscript  were  loud  in  praise,  some 
thought  it  possible  that  an  audience  might  become  impatient 
even  of  very  good  rhetoric,  and  advised  Addison  to  print  the 
play  without  hazarding  a  representation.     At  length,  after  many 

1  Charles  Dickens  (1812-70),  whose  Pickwick  Papers,  Oliver  Twist, 
Master  Humphrey's  Clock,  David  Copperfield,  and  other  novels,  are  among 
the  most  popular  ever  written. 

2  This  drama  was.  based  on  the  history  of  Cato  the  Younger,  a  noble 
Roman  (95-45  B.C.).  thoroughly  devoted  to  the  Republic.  After  the  defeat 
of  Pompey  by  Caesar  he  retired  to  Utica  in  Africa,  where,  despairing  of  ulti- 
mate success,  he  put  an  end  to  his  own  life. 


THE  LIFE  AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON  89 

fits  of  apprehension,  the  poet  yielded  to  the  urgency  of  his  politi- 
cal friends,  who  hoped  that  the  public  would  discover  some  anal- 
ogy between  the  followers  of  Caesar  ^  and  the  Tories,  between 
Sempronius^  and  the  apostate  Whigs,  between  Cato  struggling 
to  the  last  for  the  liberties  of  Rome,  and  the  band  of  patriots 
who  still  stood  firm  round  Halifax  and  Wharton. 

Addison  gave  the  play  to  the  managers  of  Drury  Lane  Theater, 
without  stipulating  for  any  advantage  to  himself.  They  there- 
fore thought  themselves  bound  to  spare  no  cost  in  scenery  and 
dresses.  The  decorations,  it  is  true,  would  not  have  pleased  the 
skillful  eye  of  Mr.  Macready.^  Juba's  waistcoat  blazed  with  gold 
lace ;  Marcia's  hoop  was  worthy  of  a  duchess  on  the  birthday ; 
and  Cato  wore  a  wig  worth  fifty  guineas.  The  prologue  was 
written  by  Pope,  and  is  undoubtedly  a  dignified  and  spirited 
composition.  The  part  of  the  hero  was  excellently  played  by 
Booth.^  Steele  undertook  to  pack  a  house.  The  boxes  were  in 
a  blaze  with  the  stars  of  the  peers  in  opposition.  The  pit  was 
crowded  with  attentive  and  friendly  listeners  from  the  Inns  of 
Court  and  the  literary  coffeehouses.  Sir  Gilbert  Heathcote,  gov- 
ernor of  the  Bank  of  England,  was  at  the  head  of  a  powerful 
body  of  auxiHaries  from  the  city,  warm  men  and  true  Whigs,  but 
better  known  at  Jonathan's  and  Garraway's  ^  than  in  the  haunts 
of  wits  and  critics. 

These  precautions  were  quite  superfluous.  The  Tories,  as  a 
body,  regarded  Addison  with  no  unkind  feeHngs.  Nor  was  it 
for  their  interest — professing,  as  they  did,  profound  reverence  for 
law  and  prescription,  and  abhorrence  both  of  popular  insurrec- 
tions and  of  standing  armies — to  appropriate  to  themselves  reflec- 

1  Caius  Julius  Caesar  (100-44  B.C.). 

2  A  Roman  senator,  one  of  the  characters  in  Addison's  Cato. 

3  William  Charles  Macready  (i  793-1 873),  an  actor  of  great  power  and 
original  methods,  greatly  admired  in  Macbeth,  Lear,  lago,  Richelieu,  and 
Werner. 

*  Barton  Booth  (1681-1733),  the  favorite  tragic  actor  of  the  day. 
5  Two  London  clubs  of  that  time,  frequented  by  merchants  and  stock- 
brokers. 


90  «  MACAULAY, 

tions  thrown  on  the  great  military  chief  and  demagogue  who, 
with  the  support  of  the  legions  and  of  the  common  people,  sub- 
verted all  the  ancient  institutions  of  his  country.  Accordingly, 
every  shout  that  was  raised  by  the  members  of  the  Kit  Cat  was 
echoed  by  the  High  Churchmen  of  the  October ;  ^  and  the  cur- 
tain at  length  fell  amidst  thunders  of  unanimous  applause. 

The  delight  and  admiration  of  the  town  were  described  by  the 
"  Guardian  "  in  terms  which  we  might  attribute  to  partiality,  were 
it  not  that  the  "  Examiner,"  the  organ  of  the  ministry,  held  similar 
language.  The  Tories,  indeed,  found  much  to  sneer  at  in  the 
conduct  of  their  opponents.  Steele  had  on  this,  as  on  other 
occasions,  shown  more  zeal  than  taste  or  judgment.  The  honest 
citizens  who  marched  under  the  orders  of  Sir  Gibby,  as  he  was 
facetiously  called,  probably  knew  better  when  to  buy  and  when 
to  sell  stock  than  when  to  clap  and  when  to  hiss  at  a  play,  and 
incurred  some  ridicule  by  making  the  hypocritical  Sempronius 
their  favorite,  and  by  giving  to  his  insincere  rants  louder  plaudits 
than  they  bestowed  on  the  temperate  eloquence  of  Cato.  Whar- 
ton, too,  who  had  the  incredible  effrontery  to  applaud  the  lines 
about  flying  from  prosperous  vice  and  from  the  power  of  impious 
men  to  a  private  station,  did  not  escape  the  sarcasms  of  those 
who  justly  thought  that  he  could  fly  from  nothing  more  vicious 
or  impious  than  himself.  The  epilogue,  which  was  written  by 
Garth,^  a  zealous  Whig,  was  severely  and  not  unreasonably  cen- 
siured  as  ignoble  and  out  of  place.  But  Addison  was  described, 
even  by  the  bitterest  Tory  writers,  as  a  gentleman  of  wit  and 
virtue,  in  whose  friendship  many  persons  of  both  parties  were 
happy,  and  whose  name  ought  not  to  be  mixed  up  with  factious 
squabbles. 

Of  the  jests  by  which  the  triumph  of  the  Whig  party  was  dis- 

1  A  Tory  club,  the  resort  chiefly  of  country  members  of  Parliament,  whose 
favorite  beverage  was  October  ale. 

2  Sir  Samuel  Garth  (i  660-1 71 8),  an  eminent  physician  and  mediocre  poet, 
knighted,  and  appointed  court  physician,  by  George  I.  He  is  best  known 
in  our  literary  history  by  his  mock-heroic  poem,  the  Dispensary. 


THE  LIFE  AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON,  91 

turbed,  the  most  severe  and  happy  was  Bolingbroke's.  Between 
two  acts  he  sent  for  Booth  to  his  box,  and  presented  him,  before ' 
the  whole  theater,  with  a  purse  of  fifty  guineas  for  defending  the 
cause  of  Hberty  so  well  against  a  perpetual  dictator.  This  was 
a  pungent  allusion  to  the  attempt  which  Marlborough  had  made, 
not  long  before  his  fall,  to  obtain  a  patent  creating  him  captain 
general  for  life. 

It  was  April,  and  in  April  a  hundred  and  thirty  years  ago  the 
London  season  was  thought  to  be  far  advanced.  During  a  whole 
month,  however,  "  Cato  *'  was  performed  to  overflowing  houses, 
and  brought  into  the  treasury  of  the  theater  twice  the  gains  of  an 
ordinary  spring.  In  the  summer  the  Drury  Lane  company  went 
down  to  the  act  at  Oxford,  and  there,  before  an  audience  which 
retained  an  affectionate  remembrance  of  Addison's  accomplish- 
ments and  virtues,  his  tragedy  was  acted  during  several  days. 
The  gownsmen  1  began  to  besiege  the  theater  in  the  forenoon, 
and  by  one  in  the  afternoon  all  the  seats  were  filled. 

About  the  merits  of  the  piece  which  had  so  extraordinary  an 
effect,  the  public,  we  suppose,  has  made  up  its  mind.  To  com- 
pare it  with  the  masterpieces  of  the  Attic  stage,^  with  the  great 
English  dramas  of  the  time  of  Elizabeth,  or  even  with  the  pro- 
ductions of  Schiller's  ^  manhood,  would  be  absurd  indeed.  Yet 
it  contains  excellent  dialogue  and  declamation,  and,  among  plays 
fashioned  on  the  French  model,  must  be  allowed  to  rank  high  ; 
not,  indeed,  with  '*  Athahe"  or  ''Saul,"  but,  we  think,  not  below 
"Cinna,"^  and  certainly  above  any  other  English  tragedy  of  the 
same  school,  above  many  of  the  plaj^s  of  Corneille,^  above  many 


1  Students. 

2  The  dramas  of  the  ancient  Greek  tragedians. 

3  One  of  the  most  illustrious  of  German  poets  (i 759-1805),  author  of  sev- 
eral tragedies,  and  a  number  of  other  works  in  prose  and  verse. 

*  Athalie,  Saul,  and  Cinna  were  dramas  written  respectively  by  Racine, 
Alfieri,  and  Corneille. 

5  Pierre  Corneille  (1606-84),  a  celebrated  French  dramatist  of  the  time  of 
Louis  XIV. 


92  MACAULAY, 

of  the  plays  of  Voltaire  and  Alfieri,i  and  above  some  plays  of 
Racine.  Be  this  as  it  may,  we  have  little  doubt  that  *'  Cato  "  did 
as  much  as  the  **  Tatlers,"  **  Spectators,"  and  *'  Freeholders " 
united  to  raise  Addison's  fame  among  his  contemporaries. 
"  The  modesty  and  good  nature  of  the  successful  dramatist  had 
tamed  even  the  mahgnity  of  faction.  But  Hterary  envy,  it  should 
seem,  is  a  fiercer  passion  than  party  spirit.  It  was  by  a  zealous 
Whig  that  the  fiercest  attack  on  the  Whig  tragedy  was  made. 
John  Dennis  2  published  "  Remarks  on  Cato,"  which  were  writ- 
ten with  some  acuteness  and  with  much  coarseness  and  asperity. 
Addison  neither  defended  himself  nor  retaUated.  On  many 
points  he  had  an  excellent  defense,  and  nothing  would  have 
been  easier  than  to  retaliate,  for  Dennis  had  written  bad  odes, 
bad  tragedies,  bad  comedies ;  he  had,  moreover,  a  larger  share 
than  most  men  of  those  infirmities  and  eccentricities  which  excite 
laughter :  and  Addison's  power  of  turning  either  an  absurd  book 
or  an  absurd  man  into  ridicule  was  unrivaled.  Addison,  how- 
ever, serenely  conscious  of  his  superiority,  looked  with  pity  on 
his  assailant,  whose  temper,  naturally  irritable  and  gloomy,  had 
been  soured  by  want,  by  controversy,  and  by  literary  failures. 

But  among  the  young  candidates  for  Addison's  favor  there 
was  one  distinguished  by  talents  from  the  rest,  and  distinguished, 
we  fear,  not  less  by  malignity  and  insincerity.  Pope  was  only 
twenty-five.  But  his  powers  had  expanded  to  their  full  maturity  ; 
and  his  best  poem,  the  "  Rape  of  the  Lock,"  had  recently  been 
published.  Of  his  genius,  Addison  had  always  expressed  high 
admiiration  ;  but  Addison  had  early  discerned,  what  might,  indeed, 
have  been  discerned  by  an  eye  less  penetrating  than  his,  that 
the  diminutive,  crooked,  sickly  boy  was  eager  to  revenge  him- 
self on  society  for  the  unkindness  of  nature.  In  the  **  Spectator," 
the  "  Essay  on  Criticism  "  had  been  praised  with  cordial  warmth  ; 

1  The  greatest  of  Italian  tragic  poets  (i 749-1803). 

2  A  critic  and  playwright  (1679-1734),  whose  irritable  temper  involved 
him  in  controversy  with  many  of  the  writers  of  his  time.  Swift  lampooned 
him,  and  Pope  attacked  him  in  the  Dunciad. 


THE  LIFE  AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON  93 

but  a  gentle  hint  had  been  added,  that  the  writer  of  so  excellent 
a  poem  would  have  done  well  to  avoid  ill-natured  personalities. 
Pope,  though  evidently  more  galled  by  the  censure  than  gratified 
by  the  praise,  returned  thanks  for  the  admonition,  and  promised 
to  profit  by  it.  The  two  writers  continued  to  exchange  civihties, 
counsel,  and  small  good  offices.  Addison  pubHcly  extolled  Pope's 
miscellaneous  pieces ;  and  Pope  furnished  Addison  with  a  pro- 
logue. This  did  not  last  long.  Pope  hated  Dennis,  whom  he 
had  injured  without  provocation.  The  appearance  of  the  **  Re- 
marks on  Cato  "  gave  the  irritable  poet  an  opportunity  of  vent- 
ing his  mahce  under  the  show  of  friendship ;  and  such  an  oppor- 
tunity could  not  but  be  welcome  to  a  nature  which  was  implacable 
in  enmity,  and  which  always  preferred  the  tortuous  to  the  straight 
path.  He  published,  accordingly,  the  "  Narrative  of  the  Frenzy 
of  John  Dennis."  But  Pope  had  mistaken  his  powers.  He  was 
a  great  master  of  invective  and  sarcasm  ;  he  could  dissect  a  char- 
acter in  terse  and  sonorous  couplets,  brilliant  with  antithesis :  but 
of  dramatic  talent  he  was  altogether  destitute.  If  he  had  written 
a  lampoon  on  Dennis,  such  as  that  on  Atticus  or  that  on  Sporus,^ 
the  old  grumbler  would  have  been  crushed.  But  Pope  writing 
dialogue  resembled  —  to  borrow  Horace's  imagery  and  his  own 
—  a  wolf,  which,  instead  of  biting,  should  take  to  kicking,  or  a 
monkey  which  should  try  to  sting.  The  Narrative  is  utterly  con- 
temptible. Of  argument  there  is  not  even  a  show;  and  the  jests 
are  such  as,  if  they  were  introduced  into  a  farce,  would  call  forth 
the  hisses  of  the  shilling  gallery.  Dennis  raves  about  the  drama ; 
and  the  nurse  thinks  that  he  is  calling  for  a  dram.  "  There  is," 
he  cries,  *'  no  peripetia  ^  in  the  tragedy,  no  change  of  fortune,  no 
change  at  all."  '^  Pray,  good  sir,  be  not  angry,"  says  the  old 
woman  ;  ''  I'll  fetch  change."  This  is  not  exactly  the  pleasantry 
of  Addison. 

1  Atticus  is  the  name  used  by  Pope  in  his  sneering  attack  upon  Addison 
in  his  Epistle  to  Dr.  Arbuthnot ;  Sporus,  that  under  which  he  satirizes  John, 
Lord  Hervey,  known  as  Lord  Fanny,  from  his  foppishness  and  effeminacy. 

2  That  part  of  a  drama  in  which  the  plot  is  unraveled. 


94  MACAU  LAY, 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  Addison  saw  through  this  officious 
zeal,  and  felt  himself  deeply  aggrieved  by  it.  So  foolish  and 
spiteful  a  pamphlet  could  do  him  no  good,  and,  if  he  were 
thought  to  have  any  hand  in  it,  must  do  him  harm.  Gifted 
with  incomparable  powers  of  ridicule,  he  had  never,  even  in  self- 
defense,  used  those  powers  inhumanly  or  uncourteously ;  and  he 
was  not  disposed  to  let  others  make  his  fame  and  his  interests  a 
pretext  under  which  they  might  commit  outrages  from  which  he 
had  himself  constantly  abstained.  He  accordingly  d(xlared  that 
he  had  no  concern  in  the  Narrative,  that  he  disapproved  of  it, 
and  that  if  he  answered  the  remarks,  he  would  answer  them  like 
a  gentleman ;  and  he  took  care  to  communicate  this  to  Dennis. 
Pope  was  bitterly  mortified ;  and  to  this  transaction  we  are  in- 
clined to  ascribe  the  hatred  with  which  he  ever  after  regarded 
Addison. 

In  September,  1 7 1 3,  the  ^*  Guardian  "  ceased  to  appear.  Steele 
had  gone  mad  about  politics.  A  general  election  had  just  taken 
place.  He  had  been  chosen  member  for  Stockbridge,  and  he 
fully  expected  to  play  a  first  part  in  Parliament.  The  immense 
success  of  the  ''  Tatler  "  and  ''  Spectator  "  had  turned  his  head. 
He  had  been  the  editor  of  both  those  papers,  and  was  not  aware 
how  entirely  they  owed  their  influence  and  popularity  to  the 
genius  of  his  friend.  His  spirits,  always  violent,  were  now  ex- 
cited by  vanity,  ambition,  and  faction,  to  such  a  pitch  that  he 
every  day  committed  some  offense  against  good  sense  and  good 
taste.  All  the  discreet  and  moderate  members  of  his  own  party 
regretted  and  condemned  his  folly.  ''  I  am  in  a  thousand  trou- 
bles," Addison  wrote,  *^  about  poor  Dick,  and  wish  that  his  zeal 
for  the  public  may  not  be  ruinous  to  himself.  But  he  has  sent 
me  word  that  he  is  determined  to  go  on,  and  that  any  advice  I 
may  give  him  in  this  particular  will  have  no  weight  with  him." 

Steele  set  up  a  political  paper  called  the  "  Englishman,"  which, 
as  it  was  not  supported  by  contributions  from  Addison,  com- 
pletely failed.  By  this  work,  by  some  other  writings  of  the  same 
kind,  and  by  the  airs  which  he  gave  himself  at  the  first  meeting 


THE   LIFE  AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON.  95 

of  the  new  Parliament,  he  made  the  Tories  so  angry  that  they 
determined  to  expel  him.  The  Whigs  stood  by  him  gallantly, 
but  were  unable  to  save  him.  The  vote  of  expulsion  was  re- 
garded by  all  dispassionate  men  as  a  tyrannical  exercise  of  the 
power  of  the  majority.  But  Steele's  violence  and  folly,  though 
they  by  no  means  justified  the  steps  which  his  enemies  took, 
had  completely  disgusted  his  friends ;  nor  did  he  ever  regain  the 
place  which  he  had  held  in  the  public  estimation. 

Addison  about  this  time  conceived  the  design  of  adding  an 
eighth  volume  to  the  **  Spectator."  In  June,  1714,  the  first  num- 
ber of  the  new  series  appeared,  and  during  about  six  months  three 
papers  were  published  weekly.  Nothing  can  be  more  striking 
than  the  contrast  between  the  '*  Englishman "  and  the  eighth 
volume  of  the  '*  Spectator,"  between  Steele  without  Addison  and 
Addison  without  Steele.  The  '*  Enghshman  "  is  forgotten  :  the 
eighth  volume  of  the  ''  Spectator  "  contains,  perhaps,  the  finest 
essays,  both  serious  and  playful,  in  the  English  language. 

Before  this  volume  was  completed,  the  death  of  Anne  pro- 
duced an  entire  change  in  the  administration  of  public  affairs. 
The  blow  fell  suddenly.  It  found  the  Tory  party  distracted  by 
internal  feuds,  and  unprepared  for  any  great  effort.  Harley  had 
.just  been  disgraced.  Bolingbroke,  it  was  supposed,  would  be  the 
chief  minister,  But  the  Queen  was  on  her  deathbed  before  the 
white  staff  had  been  given ;  and  her  last  pubHc  act  was  to  deliver 
it  with  a  feeble  hand  to  the  Duke  of  Shrewsbury.  The  emer- 
gency produced  a  coalition  between  all  sections  of  pubHc  men 
who  were  attached  to  the  Protestant  succession.^  George  I.  was 
proclaimed  without  opposition.  A  council,  in  which  the  leading 
Whigs  had  seats,  took  the  direction  of  affairs  till  the  new  King 
should  arrive.  The  first  act  of  the  lords  justices  was  to  appoint 
Addison  their  secretary. 

There  is  an  idle  tradition  that  he  was  directed  to  prepare  a 
letter  to  the  King,  that  he  could  not  satisfy  himself  as  to  the 

1  The  exclusion  of  the  heirs  of  James  II.,  who  were  Catholics,  and  the  set- 
tlement of  the  crown  upon  the  descendants  of  Sophia  (see  Note  5,  p.  51). 


96  MACAULAY. 

Style  of  this  composition,  and  that  the  lords  justices  called  in  a 
clerk,  who  at  once  did  what  was  wanted  It  is  not  strange  that 
a  story  so  flattering  to  mediocrity  should  be  popular,  and  we  are 
sorry  to  deprive  dunces  of  their  consolation.  But  the  truth  must 
be  told.  It  was  well  observed  by  Sir  James  Mackintosh, ^  whose 
knowledge  of  these  times  was  unequaled,  that  Addison  never,  in 
any  official  document,  affected  wit  or  eloquence,  and  that  his 
dispatches  are,  without  exception,  remarkable  for  unpretending 
simplicity.  Everybody  who  knows  with  what  ease  Addison's  fin- 
est essays  were  produced  must  be  convinced,  that,  if  well-turned 
phrases  had  been  wanted,  he  would  have  had  no  difficulty  in  find- 
ing them.  We  are,  however,  inchned  to  believe  that  the  story  is 
not  absolutely  without  a  foundation.  It  may  well  be  that  Addison 
did  not  know,  till  he  had  consulted  experienced  clerks  who  re- 
membered the  time  when  William  III.  was  absent  on  the  Con- 
tinent, in  what  form  a  letter  from  the  Council  of  Regency 
to  the  King  ought  to  be  drawn.  We  think  it  very  likely  that  the 
ablest  statesmen  of  our  time  —  Lord  John  Russell,  Sir  Robert  Peel, 
Lord  Palmerston,2  for  example — would,  in  similar  circumstances, 
be  found  quite  as  ignorant.  Every  office  has  some  Httle  mys- 
teries which  the  dullest  man  may  learn  with  a  little  attention, 
and  which  the  greatest  man  cannot  possibly  know  by  intuition. 
One  paper  must  be  signed  by  the  chief  of  the  department ;  an- 
other by  his  deputy ;  to  a  third  the  royal  sign  manual  is  neces- 
sary. One  communication  is  to  be  registered,  and  another  is 
not.  One  sentence  must  be  in  black  ink,  and  another  in  red  ink. 
If  the  ablest  secretary  for  Ireland  were  moved  to  the  India  Board, 
if  the  ablest  president  of  the  India  Board  were  moved  to  the  War 
Office,  he  would  require  instruction  on  points  like  these ;  and  we 
do  not  doubt  that  Addison  required  such  instruction  when  he 
became,  for  the  first  time,  secretary  to  the  lords  justices. 

1  Statesman  and  historian  (i 766-1832).      He  wrote,  among  other  works, 
a  History  of  the  Revolution  of  1688. 

2  Lord  John  Russell,  Sir  Robert  Peel,  and  Lord  Palmerston,  distinguished 
English  statesmen  and  prime  ministers  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Victoria. 


THE  LIFE  AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON  97 

George  I.  took  possession  of  his  kingdom  without  oppo- 
sition. A  new  ministry  was  formed,  and  a  new  Parhament  favor- 
able to  the  Whigs  chosen.  Sunderland  was  appointed  lord  lieu- 
tenant of  Ireland,  and  Addison  again  went  to  Dubhn  as  chief 
secretary. 

At  Dubhn,  Swift  resided ;  and  there  was  much  speculation 
about  the  way  in  which  the  Dean  and  the  Secretary  would  be- 
have towards  each  other.  The  relations  which  existed  between 
these  remarkable  men  form  an  interesting  and  pleasing  portion 
of  literary  history.  They  had  early  attached  themselves  to  the 
same  political  party  and  to  the  same  patrons.  While  Anne's 
Whig  ministry  was  in  power,  the  visits  of  Swift  to  London,  and 
the  official  residence  of  Addison  in  Ireland,  had  given  them  oppor- 
tunities of  knowing  each  other.  They  were  the  two  shrewdest 
observers  of  their  age ;  but  their  observations  on  each  other  had 
led  them  to  favorable  conclusions.  Swift  did  full  justice  to  the 
rare  powers  of  conversation  which  were  latent  under  the  bashful 
deportment  of  Addison.  Addison,  on  the  other  hand,  discerned 
much  good  nature  under  the  severe  look  and  manner  of  Swift ; 
and,  indeed,  the  Swift  of  1708  and  the  Swift  of  1738  were  two 
very  different  men. 

But  the  paths  of  the  two  friends  diverged  widely.  The  Whig 
statesmen  loaded  Addison  with  solid  benefits.  They  praised 
Swift,  asked  him  to  dinner,  and  did  nothing  more  for  him.  His 
profession  laid  them  under  a  difficulty.  In  the  State  they  could 
not  promote  him ;  and  they  had  reason  to  fear,  that,  by  bestow- 
ing preferment  in  the  Church  on  the  author  of  the  "  Tale  of  a 
Tub,"  i  they  might  give  scandal  to  the  pubhc,  which  had  no  high 
opinion  of  their  orthodoxy.  He  did  not  make  fair  allowance 
for  the  difficulties  which  prevented  Halifax  and  Somers  from 
serving  him,  thought  himself  an  ill-used  man,  sacrificed  honor  and 
consistency  to  revenge,  joined  the  Tories,  and  became  their  most 
formidable  champion.     He  soon  found,  however,  that  his  old 

1  A  powerful  satire  by  Dean  Swift,  written  to  promote  the  interests  of  the 
Tory  and  High  Church  party. 

7 


98  MAC  AULA  Y. 

friends  were  less  to  blame  than  he  had  supposed.  The  dislike 
with  which  the  Queen  and  the  heads  of  the  Church  regarded 
him  was  insurmountable ;  and  it  was  with  the  greatest  difficulty 
that  he  obtained  an  ecclesiastical  dignity  of  no  great  value,  on 
condition  of  fixing  his  residence  in  a  country  which  he  detested. 

Difference  of  political  opinion  had  produced,  not,  indeed,  a 
quarrel,  but  a  coolness  between  Swift  and  Addison.  They  at  length 
ceased  altogether  to  see  each  other.  Yet  there  was  between 
them  a  tacit  compact  like  that  between  the  hereditary  guests  in 
the  "Iliad:"— 

'^Ey;(;ea  (5'  bXkrfkciv  cikecjfJLeda  kol  6C  ofiDiov 
JIoaI.oI  fiev  yap  kfiol  Tpwef  K?i€iToi  f  emuovpoiy 
Kreiveiv,  uv  ke  d^eog  ye  irdpri  koI  tzoggI  Kix^iUf 
lIo9i?iOL  6'  av  Got  ^AxcLioly  evalpejueVj  bv  ke  dvvrjau^ 

Ih'adf  Lib.  VI.  226-229. 

It  is  not  strange  that  Addison,  who  calumniated  and  insulted 
nobody,  should  not  have  calumniated  or  insulted  Swift ;  but  it 
is  remarkable  that  Swift,  to  whom  neither  genius  nor  virtue  was 
sacred,  and  who  generally  seemed  to  find,  like  most  other  rene- 
gades, a  peculiar  pleasure  in  attacking  old  friends,  should  have 
shown  so  much  respect  and  tenderness  to  Addison. 

Fortune  had  now  changed.  The  accession  of  the  house  of 
Hanover  had  secured  in  England  the  liberties  of  the  people,  and 
in  Ireland  the  dominion  of  the  Protestant  caste.  To  that  caste 
Swift  was  more  odious  than  any  other  man.  He  was  hooted 
and  even  pelted  in  the  streets  of  Dublin,  and  could  not  venture 
to  ride  along  the  strand  for  his  health  without  the  attendance  of 
armed  servants.     Many  whom  he  had  formerly  served  now  libeled 

1  Bryant's  translation  :  — 

**  And  let  us  in  the  tumult  of  the  fray, 
Avoid  each  other's  spears,  for  there  will  be 
Of  Trojans  and  of  their  renowned  allies 
Enough  for  me  to  slay,  whene'er  a  god 
Shall  bring  them  in  my  way.     In  turn  for  thee 
Are  many  Greeks  to  smite,  whomever  thou 
Canst  overcome." 


THE  LIFE  AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON.  99 

and  insulted  him.  At  this  time  Addison  arrived.  He  had  been 
advised  not  to  show  the  smallest  civihty  to  the  Dean  of  St.  Pat- 
rick's. He  had  answered,  with  admirable  spirit,  that  it  might 
be  necessary  for  men  whose  fidehty  to  their  party  was  suspected 
to  hold  no  intercourse  with  political  opponents ;  but  that  one 
who  had  been  a  steady  Whig  in  the  worst  times  might  venture, 
when  the  good  cause  was  triumphant,  to  shake  hands  with  an 
old  friend  who  was  one  of  the  vanquished  Tories.  His  kind- 
ness was  soothing  to  the  proud  and  cruelly  wounded  spirit  of 
Swift ;  and  the  two  great  satirists  resumed  their  habits  of  friendly 
intercourse. 

Those  associates  of  Addison  whose  political  opinions  agreed 
with  his  shared  his  good  fortune.  He  took  Tickell  with  him  to 
Ireland.  He  procured  for  Budgell  a  lucrative  place  in  the  same 
kingdom.  Ambrose  Philips  was  provided  for  in  England.  Steele 
had  injured  himself  so  much  by  his  eccentricity  and  perverseness 
that  he  obtained  but  a  very  small  part  of  what  he  thought  his 
due.  He  was,  however,  knighted ;  he  had  a  place  in  the  house- 
hold ;  and  he  subsequently  received  other  marks  of  favor  from 
the  court. 

Addison  did  not  remain  long  in  Ireland.  In  1 7 1 5  he  quitted 
his  secretaryship  for  a  seat  at  the  Board  of  Trade.  In  the  same 
year  his  comedy  of  the  ''  Drummer  "  was  brought  on  the  stage. 
The  name  of  the  author  was  not  announced.  The  piece  was  coldly 
received ;  and  some  critics  have  expressed  a  doubt  whether  it 
were  really  Addison's.  To  us  the  evidence,  both  external  and 
internal,  seems  decisive.  It  is  not  in  Addison's  best  manner; 
but  it  contains  numerous  passages  which  no  other  writer  known 
to  us  could  have  produced.  It  was  again  performed  after  Addi- 
son's death,  and,  being  known  to  be  his,  was  loudly  applauded. 

Towards  the  close  of  the  year  1 7 1 5,  while  the  Rebellion  was  still 
raging  in  Scotland, ^  Addison  pubhshed  the  first  number  of  a  paper 

1  The  Rebellion  in  Scotland  in  171 5  was  instigated  by  the  Jacobites,  with 
a  view  to  reinstating  the  Stuart  dynasty  on  the  English  throne  (see  Note  3, 
p.  80). 


lOO  MACAULAY, 

called  the  "  Freeholder."  Among  his  political  works  the  "  Free- 
holder "  is  entitled  to  the  first  place.  Even  in  the  "  Spectator  " 
there  are  few  serious  papers  nobler  than  the  character  of  his  friend 
Lord  Somers,  and  certainly  no  satirical  papers  superior  to  those 
in  which  the  Tory  fox  hunter  is  introduced.  This  character  is 
the  original  of  Squire  Western,^  and  is  drawn  with  all  Fielding's 
force,  and  with  a  delicacy  of  which  Fielding  was  altogether  des- 
titute. As  none  of  Addison's  works  exhibit  stronger  marks  of 
his  genius  than  the  *'  Freeholder,"  so  none  does  more  honor  to  his 
moral  character.  It  is  difficult  to  extol  too  highly  the  candor 
and  humanity  of  a  political  writer  whom  even  the  excitement  oi 
civil  war  cannot  hurry  into  unseemly  violence.  Oxford,  it  is  well 
known,  was  then  the  stronghold  of  Toryism.  The  High  Street 
had  been  repeatedly  hned  with  bayonets  in  order  to  keep  down 
the  disaffected  gownsmen ;  and  traitors  pursued  by  the  messen- 
gers of  the  government  had  been  concealed  in  the  garrets  of 
several  colleges.  Yet  the  admonition  which,  even  under  such 
circumstances,  Addison  addressed  to  the  university,  is  singularly 
gentle,  respectful,  and  even  affectionate :  indeed,  he  could  not 
find  it  in  his  heart  to  deal  harshly  even  with  imaginary  persons. 
His  fox  hunter,  though  ignorant,  stupid,  and  violent,  is  at  heart  a 
good  fellow,  and  is  at  last  reclaimed  by  the  clemency  of  the  King. 
Steele  was  dissatisfied  with  his  friend's  moderation,  and,  though  he 
acknowledged  that  the  ''  Freeholder"  was  excellently  written,  com- 
plained that  the  ministry  played  on  a  lute  when  it  was  necessary 
to  blow  the  trumpet.  He  accordingly  determined  to  execute  a 
flourish  after  his  own  fashion,  and  tried  to  rouse  the  public  spirit 
of  the  nation  by  means  of  a  paper  called  the  ''  Town  Talk,"  which 
is  now  as  utterly  forgotten  as  his  "  Enghshman,"  as  his  "  Crisis," 
as  his  '^  Letter  to  the  Bailiff  of  Stockbridge,"  as  his  '^  Reader : "  in 
short,  as  everything  that  he  wrote  without  the  help  of  Addison. 

In  the  same  year  in  which  the  "  Drummer  "  was  acted,  and  in 
which  the  first  numbers  of  the  "Freeholder"  appeared,  the  estrange- 

1  Squire  Western  is  one  of  the  characters,  a  typical  foxhunting  squire,  in 
Fielding's  Tom  Jones. 


THE   LIFE.  AND    WRITINGS  OF  ADDISON.  loi 

ment  of  Pope  and  Addison  became  complete.  Addison  had  from 
the  first  seen  that  Pope  was  false  and  malevolent.  Pope  had  dis- 
covered that  Addison  was  jealous.  The  discovery  was  made  in 
a  strange  manner.  Pope  had  written  the  ''  Rape  of  the  Lock," 
in  two  cantos,  without  supernatural  machinery.  These  two  cantos 
had  been  loudly  applauded,  and  by  none  more  loudly  than  by 
Addison.  Then  Pope  thought  of  the  sylphs  and  gnomes,  Ariel, 
Momentilla,  Crispissa,  and  Umbriel,  and  resolved  to  interweave 
the  Rosicrucian  ^  mythology  with  the  original  fabric.  He  asked 
Addison's  advice.  Addison  said  that  the  poem  as  it  stood  was 
a  delicious  httle  thing,  and  entreated  Pope  not  to  run  the  risk 
of  marring  what  was  so  excellent  in  trying  to  mend  it.  Pope  after- 
wards declared  that  this  insidious  counsel  first  opened  his  eyes 
to  the  baseness  of  him  who  gave  it. 

Now  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  Pope's  plan  was  most  ingen- 
ious, and  that  he  afterwards  executed  it  with  great  skill  and 
success ;  but  does  it  necessarily  follow  that  Addison's  advice 
was  bad  ?  And,  if  Addison's  advice  was  bad,  does  it  necessarily 
follow  that  it  was  given  from  bad  motives  ?  If  a  friend  were  to 
ask  us  whether  we  would  advise  him  to  risk  his  all  in  a  lottery 
of  which  the  chances  were  ten  to  one  against  him,  we  should  do 
our  best  to  dissuade  him  from  running  such,  a  risk.  Even  if  he 
were  so  lucky  as  to  get  the  thirty  thousand  pound  prize,  we 
should  not  admit  that  we  had  counseled  him  ill,  and  we  should 
certainly  think  it  the  height  of  injustice  in  him  to  accuse  us  of 
having  been  actuated  by  mahce.  We  think  Addison's  advice 
good  advice.  It  rested  on  a  sound  principle,  the  result  of  long 
and  wide  experience.  The  general  rule  undoubtedly  is,  that,  when 
a  successful  work  of  imagination  has  been  produced,  it  should 
not  be  recast.  We  cannot  at  this  moment  call  to  mind  a  single 
instance  in  which  this  rule  has  been  transgressed  with  happy 

1  The  Rosicrucians  were  a  sect  of  visionaries,  originating  in  Germany,  and 
founded  by  a  German  nobleman,  Rosenkreuz,  in  the  fourteenth  century. 
They  pretended  to  know  all  sciences,  particularly  medicine,  and  to  be  masters 
of  important  secrets,  among  them  the  philosopher's  stone. 


102  MACAULAY, 

effect,  except  the  instance  of  the  "  Rape  of  the  Lock."  Tasso 
recast  his  ''Jerusalem."  Akenside  ^  rec'ast  his  *'  Pleasures  of  the 
Imagination,"  and  his  ''  Epistle  to  Curio."  Pope  himself,  em- 
boldened, no  doubt,  by  the  success  with  which  he  had  expanded 
and  remodeled  the  "  Rape  of  the  Lock,"  made  the  same  experi- 
ment on  the  *'  Dunciad."  2  All  these  attempts  failed.  Who  was 
to  foresee  that  Pope  would,  once  in  his  life,  be  able  to  do  wliat 
he  could  not  himself  do  twice,  and  what  nobody  else  has  ever 
done  ? 

r:  Addison's  advice  was  good ;  but,  had  it  been  bad,  why 
should  we  pronounce  it  dishonest  ?  Scott  tells  us  that  one  of 
his  best  friends  predicted  the  failure  of  '' Waverley."  Herder'^ 
adjured  Goethe  not  to  take  so  unpromising  a  subject  as  Faust. 
Hume  ^  tried  to  dissuade  Robertson  from  writing  the  '*  History 
of  Charles  the  Fifth."  Nay,  Pope  himself  was  one  of  those 
who  prophesied  that  ''  Cato  "  would  never  succeed  on  the  stage, 
and  advised  Addison  to  print  it  without  risking  a  representation. 
But  Scott,  Goethe,  Robertson,  Addison,  had  the  good  sense  and 
generosity  to  give  their  advisers  credit  for  the  best  intentions. 
Pope's  heart  was  not  of  the  same  kind  with  theirs. 

In  1 71 5,  while  he  was  engaged  in  translating  the  ''Iliad,"  he 
met  Addison  at  a  coffeehouse.  Philips  and  Budgell  were  there ; 
but  their  sovereign  got  rid  of  them,  and  asked  Pope  to  dine  with 
him  alone.  After  dinner,  Addison  said  that  he  lay  under  a  diffi- 
culty which  he  wished  to  explain.  "Tickell,"he  said,  "trans- 
lated some  time  ago  the  first  book  of  the  '  Iliad.'  I  have  prom- 
ised to  look  it  over  and  correct  it.     I  cannot  therefore  ask  to  see 

1  Mark  Akenside  (1721-70),  poet  and  physician,  and  author  of  the  Pleas- 
ures of  the  Imagination,  a  once  celebrated  poem. 

2  A  mock-heroic  poem,  in  which  Pope  attacked  with  merciless  satire  a 
number  of  obscure  writers,  and  with  them  many  worthy  persons  who  had 
given  him  no  offense. 

3  A  German  writer  and  philosopher  (1744- 1803),  author  of  a  number  of 
works  on  science,  philosophy,  language,  and  history. 

4  David  Hume  (171 1-76),  a  celebrated  English  historian  and  philosopher, 
author  of  a  History  of  England  to  the  period  of  William  and  Mary. 


THE   LIFE   AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON  103 

yours ;  for  that  would  be  double  dealing."  Pope  made  a  civil 
reply,  and  begged  that  his  second  book  might  have  the  advan- 
tage of  Addison's  revision.  Addison  readily  agreed,  looked  over 
the  second  book,  and  sent  it  back  with  warm  commendations. 

Tickell's  version  of  the  first  book  appeared  soon  after  this  con- 
versation. In  the  preface,  all  rivalry  was  earnestly  disclaimed. 
Tick  ell  declared  that  he  should  not  go  on  with  the  ''  Iliad." 
That  enterprise  he  should  leave  to  powers  which  he  admitted 
to  be  superior  to  his  own.  His  only  view,  he  said,  in  publishing 
this  specimen  was  to  bespeak  the  favor  of  the  pubhc  to  a  trans- 
lation of  the  "  Odyssey,"  in  which  he  had  made  some  progress. 

Addison,  and  Addison's  devoted  followers,  pronounced  both 
the  versions  good,  but  maintained  that  Tickell's  had  more  of  the 
original.  The  town  gave  a  decided  preference  to  Pope's.  We 
do  not  think  it  worth  while  to  settle  such  a  question  of  precedence. 
Neither  of  the  rivals  can  be  said  to  have  translated  the  *'  Iliad," 
unless,  indeed,  the  word  "  translation  "  be  used  in  the  sense  which 
it  bears  in  the  ''  Midsummer  Night's  Dream."  ^  When  Bottom 
makes  his  appearance  with  an  ass's  head  instead  of  his  own, 
Peter  Quince  2  exclaims,  '^  Bless  thee.  Bottom !  bless  thee  !  thou 
art  translated."  In  this  sense,  undoubtedly,  the  readers  of  either 
Pope  or  Tickell  may  very  properly  exclaim,  "  Bless  thee,  Homer! 
thou  art  translated  indeed." 

Our  readers  will,  we  hope,  agree  with  us  in  thinking  that  no 
man  in  Addison's  situation  could  have  acted  more  fairly  and 
kindly,  both  towards  Pope  and  towards  Tickell,  than  he  appears 
to  have  done.  But  an  odious  suspicion  had  sprung  up  in  the 
mind  of  Pope.  He  fancied,  and  he  soon  firmly  believed,  that 
there  was  a  deep  conspiracy  against  his  fame  and  his  fortunes. 
The  work  on  which  he  had  staked  his  reputation  was  to  be 
depreciated.  The  subscription,  on  which  rested  his  hopes  of  a 
competence,  was  to  be  defeated.     With  this  view,  Addison  had 

1  One  of  Shakespeare's  comedies. 

2  Bottom  and  Peter  Quince  are  characters  in  Shakespeare's  Midsummer 
Night's  Dream. 


I04  MACAULAY, 

made  a  rival  translation  ;  Tickell  had  consented  to  father  it ;  and 
the  wits  of  Button's  had  united  to  puff  it. 

Is  there  any  external  evidence  to  support  this  grave  accusa- 
tion ?     The  answer  is  short.     There  is  absolutely  none. 

Was  there  any  internal  evidence  which  proved  Addison  to  be 
the  author  of  this  version  ?  Was  it  a  work  which  Tickell  was 
incapable  of  producing  ?  Surely  not.  Tickell  was  a  fellow  of 
a  college  at  Oxford,  and  must  be  supposed  to  have  been  able  to 
construe  the  "  Iliad  ;"  and  he  was  a  better  versifier  than  his  friend. 
We  are  not  aware  that  Pope  pretended  to  have  discovered  any 
turns  of  expression  peculiar  to  Addison.  Had  such  turns  of 
expression  been  discovered,  they  would  be  sufficiently  accounted 
for  by  supposing  Addison  to  have  corrected  his  friend's  lines,  as 
he  owned  that  he  had  done. 

Is  there  anything  in  the  character  of  the  accused  persons  which 
makes  the  accusation  probable  ?  We  answer  confidently.  Noth- 
ing. Tickell  was  long  after  this  time  described  by  Pope  himself 
as  a  very  fair  and  worthy  man.  Addison  had  been,  during  many 
years,  before  the  public.  Literary  rivals,  political  opponents,  had 
kept  their  eyes  on  him.  But  neither  envy  nor  faction,  in  their 
utmost  rage,  had  ever  imputed  to  him  a  single  deviation  from  the 
laws  of  honor  and  of  social  morality.  Had  he  been,  indeed,  a 
man  meanly  jealous  of  fame,  and  capable  of  stooping  to  base 
and  wicked  arts  for  the  purpose  of  injuring  his  competitors,  would 
his  vices  have  remained  latent  so  long  ?  He  was  a  writer  of 
tragedy :  had  he  ever  injured  Rowe  ?  He  was  a  writer  of  com- 
edy :  had  he  not  done  ample  justice  to  Congreve,  and  given  valu- 
able help  to  Steele  ?  .  He  was  a  pamphleteer :  have  not  his  good 
nature  and  generosity  been  acknowledged  by  Swift,  his  rival  in 
fame,  and  his  adversary  in  politics  ? 

That  Tickell  should  have  been  guilty  of  a  villainy  seems  to  us 
highly  improbable.  That  Addison  should  have  been  guilty  of  a 
villainy  seems  to  us  highly  improbable.  But  that  these  two  men 
should  have  conspired  together  to  commit  a  villainy  seems  to  us 
improbable  in  a  tenfold  degree.    All  that  is  known  to  us  of  their 


THE   LIFE  AND.  WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON.  105 

intercourse  tends  to  prove  that  it  was  not  the  intercourse  of  two 
accomplices  in  crime.  These  are  some  of  the  hnes  in  which 
Tickell  poured  forth  his  sorrow  over  the  coffin  of  Addison: — 

**  Or  dost  thou  warn  poor  mortals  left  behind, 
A  task  well  suited  to  thy  gentle  mind  ? 
Oh,  if  sometimes  thy  spotless  form  descend. 
To  me  thine  aid,  thou  guardian  genius,  lend. 
When  rage  misguides  me,  or  when  fear  alarms, 
When  pain  distresses,  or  when  pleasure  charms, 
In  silent  whisperings  purer  thoughts  impart. 
And  turn  from  ill  a  frail  and  feeble  heart ; 
Lead  through  the  paths  thy  virtue  trod  before. 
Till  bliss  shall  join,  nor  death  can  part  us  more." 

In  what  words,  we  should  like  to  know,  did  this  guardian  genius 
invite  his  pupil  to  join  in  a  plan  such  as  the  editor  of  the  ''  Satirist  " 
would  hardly  dare  to  propose  to  the  editor  of  the  *'  Age  "  ? 

We  do  not  accuse  Pope  of  bringing  an  accusation  which  he 
knew  to  be  false.  We  have  not  the  smallest  doubt  that  he  be- 
lieved it  to  be  true ;  and  the  evidence  on  which  he  believed  it  he 
found  in  his  own  bad  heart.  His  own  Hfe  was  one  long  series 
of  tricks,  as  mean  and  as  malicious  as  that  of  which  he  suspected 
Addison  and  Tickell.  He  was  all  stiletto  and  mask.  To  injure, 
to  insult,  and  to  save  himself  from  the  consequences  of  injury 
and  insult  by  lying  and  equivocating,  was  the  habit  of  his  hfe. 
He  pubHshed  a  lampoon  on  the  Duke  of  Chandos :  he  was  taxed 
with  it,  and  he  hed  and  equivocated.  He  published  a  lampoon 
on  Aaron  Hill :  1  he  was  taxed  with  it,  and  he  lied  and  equivo- 
cated. He  pubHshed  a  still  fouler  lampoon  on  Lady  Mary  Wort- 
ley  Montagu :  he  was  taxed  with  it,  and  he  Hed  with  more  than 
usual  effrontery  and  vehemence.  He  puffed  himself  and  abused 
his  enemies  under  feigned  names.  He  robbed  himself  of  his  own 
letters,  and  then  raised  the  hue  and  cry  after  them.  Besides  his 
frauds  of  maHgnity,  of  fear,  of  interest,  and  of  vanity,  there  were 
frauds  which  he  seems  to  have  committed  from  love  of  fraud 

1  An  obscure  poet  and  dramatist  (i 685-1 750), 


io6  MACAU  LAY. 

alone.  He  had  a  habit  of  stratagem,  a  pleasure  in  outwitting  all 
who  came  near  him.  AVhatever  his  object  might  be,  the  indirect 
road  to  it  was  that  which  he  preferred.  For  Bolingbroke,  Pope 
undoubtedly  felt  as  much  love  and  veneration  as  it  was  in  his 
nature  to  feel  for  any  human  being ;  yet  Pope  was  scarcely  dead 
when  it  was  discovered,  that,  from  no  motive  except  the  mere 
love  of  artifice,  he  had  been  guilty  of  an  act  of  gross  perfidy  to 
Bolingbroke. 

Nothing  was  more  natural  than  that  such  a  man  as  this  should 
attribute  to  others  that  which  he  felt  within  himself.  A  plain, 
probable,  coherent  explanation  is  frankly  given  to  him :  he  is 
certain  that  it  is  all  a  romance.  A  line  of  conduct  scrupulously 
fair,  and  even  friendly,  is  pursued  towards  him :  he  is  convinced 
that  it  is  merely  a  cover  for  a  vile  intrigue  by  which  he  is  to  be 
disgraced  and  ruined.  It  is  vain  to  ask  him  for  proofs.  He  has 
none,  and  wants  none,  except  those  which  he  carries  in  his  own 
bosom. 

Whether  Pope's  malignity  at  length  provoked  Addison  to  retali- 
ate for  the  first  and  last  time,  cannot  now  be  known  with  cer- 
tainty. We  have  only  Pope's  story,  which  runs  thus :  a  pam- 
phlet appeared  containing  some  reflections  which  stung  Pope  to 
the  quick.  What  those  reflections  were,  and  whether  they  were 
reflections  of  which  he  had  a  right  to  complain,  we  have  now  no 
means  of  deciding.  The  Earl  of  Warwick,  a  foolish  and  vicious 
lad,  who  regarded  Addison  with  the  feehngs  with  which  such 
lads  generally  regard  their  best  friends,  told  Pope,  truly  or  falsely, 
that  this  pamphlet  had  been  written  by  Addison's  direction. 
When  we  consider  what  a  tendency  stories  have  to  grow  in  pass- 
ing even  from  one  honest  man  to  another  honest  man,  and  when 
we  consider  that  to  the  name  of  honest  man  neither  Pope  nor 
the  Earl  of  Warwick  had  a  claim,  we  are  not  disposed  to  attach 
much  importance  to  this  anecdote. 

It  is  certain,  however,  that  Pope  was  furious.  He  had  already 
sketched  the  character  of  Atticus  in  prose.  In  his  anger  he  turned 
this  prose  into  the  brilliant  and  energetic  lines  which  everybody 


THE   LIFE  AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON  107 

knows  by  heart,  or  ought  to  know  by  heart,  and  sent  them  to 
Addison.  One  charge  which  Pope  has  enforced  with  great  skill 
is  probably  not  without  foundation.  Addison  was,  we  are  in- 
cHned  to  believe,  too  fond  of  presiding  over  a  circle  of  humble 
friends.  Of  the  other  imputations  which  these  famous  lines  are 
intended  to  convey,  scarcely  one  has  ever  been  proved  to  be  just, 
and  some  are  certainly  false.  That  Addison  was  not  in  the  habit 
of  ''damning  with  faint  praise"  appears  from  innumerable  pas- 
sages in  his  writings,  and  from  none  more  than  from  those  in  which 
he  mentions  Pope.  And  it  is  not  merely  unjust,  but  ridiculous,  to 
describe  a  man  who  made  the  fortune  of  almost  every  one  of 
his  intimate  friends,  as  *'so  obhging  that  he  ne'er  obliged." 

That  Addison  felt  the  sting  of  Pope's  satire  keenly,  we  cannot 
doubt ;  that  he  was  conscious  of  one  of  the  weaknesses  with 
which  he  was  reproached,  is  highly  probable :  but  his  heart,  we 
firmly  believe,  acquitted  him  of  the  gravest  part  of  the  accusa- 
tion. He  acted  like  himself.  As  a  satirist,  he  was  at  his  own 
weapons  more  than  Pope's  match,  and  he  would  have  been  at 
no  loss  for  topics.  A  distorted  and  diseased  body,  tenanted  by 
a  yet  more  distorted  and  diseased  mind ;  spite  and  envy  thinly 
disguised  by  sentiments  as  benevolent  and  noble  as  those  which 
Sir  Peter  Teazle  admired  in  Mr.  Joseph  Surface  ;^  a  feeble,  sickly 
licentiousness  ;  an  odious  love  of  filthy  and  noisome  images,  —  these 
were  things  which  a  genius  less  powerful  than  that  to  which  we 
owe  the  ''  Spectator  "  could  easily  have  held  up  to  the  mirth  and 
hatred  of  mankind.  Addison  had,  moreover,  at  his  command, 
other  means  of  vengeance,  which  a  bad  man  would  not  have 
scrupled  to  use.  He  was  powerful  in  the  State.  Pope  was  a 
Cathohc ;  and  in  those  times  a  minister  would  have  found  it 
easy  to  harass  the  most  innocent  Catholic  by  innumerable  petty 
vexations.  Pope,  near  twenty  years  later,  said  that  ''through 
the  lenity  of  the  government  alone  he  could  Hve  with  comfort." 
"  Consider,"  he  exclaimed,  "the  injury  that  a  man  of  high  rank 

1  Sir  Peter  Teazle  and  Joseph  Surface  are  characters  in  Sheridan's  comedy 
of  the  School  for  Scandal. 


Io8  MACAULAY, 

and  credit  may  do  to  a  private  person,  under  penal  laws  and 
many  other  disadvantages."  It  is  pleasing  to  reflect  that  the  only 
revenge  which  Addison  took  was  to  insert  in  the  ''  Freeholder  " 
a  warm  encomium  on  the  translation  of  the  *^  Iliad,"  and  to  exhort 
all  lovers  of  learning  to  put  down  their  names  as  subscribers. 
There  could  be  no  doubt,  he  said,  from  the  specimens  already 
published,  that  the  masterly  hand  of  Pope  would  do  as  much  for 
Homer  as  Dryden  had  done  for  Virgil.  From  that  time  to  the 
end  of  his  life,  he  always  treated  Pope,  by  Pope's  own  acknowl- 
edgment, with  justice.     Friendship  was,  of  course,  at  an  end. 

One  reason  which  induced  the  Earl  of  Warwick  to  play  the 
ignominious  part  of  talebearer  on  this  occasion  may  have  been 
his  dislike  of  the  marriage  which  was  about  to  take  place  between 
his  mother  and  Addison.  The  countess  dowager,  a  daughter  of 
the  old  and  honorable  family  of  the  Middletons  of  Chirk,  a  fam- 
ily which,  in  any  country  but  ours,  would  be  called  noble,  resided 
at  Holland  House. ^  Addison  had,  during  some  years,  occupied 
at  Chelsea  a  small  dwelling,  once  the  abode  of  Nell  Gwynn.2 
Chelsea  is  now  a  district  of  London,  and  Holland  House  may  be 
called  a  town  residence  ;  but,  in  the  days  of  Anne  and  George  I., 
milkmaids  and  sportsmen  wandered  between  green  hedges, 
and  over  fields  bright  with  daisies,  from  Kensington  almost 
to  the  shore  of  the  Thames.  Addison  and  Lady  Warwick 
were  country  neighbors,  and  became  intimate  friends.  The  great 
wit  and  scholar  tried  to  allure  the  young  lord  from  the  fashion- 
able amusements  of  beating  watchmen,  breaking  windows,  and 
rolling  women  in  hogsheads  down  Holborn  Hill,  to  the  study  of 
letters  and  the  practice  of  virtue.  These  well-meant  exertions 
did  little  good,  however,  either  to  the  disciple  or  to  the  master. 
Lord  Warwick  grew  up  a  rake,  and  Addison  fell  in  love.     The 

1  Holland  House  in  Kensington,  one  of  the  famous  London  houses,  and, 
in  the  early  part  of  this  century,  the  most  renowned  temple  of  wit,  social 
graces,  and  hospitality  in  England. 

2  An  English  actress  of  profligate  character,  and  for  some  time  a  favorite 
of  Charles  II. 


THE  LIFE  AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON.  109 

mature  beauty  of  the  countess  has  been  celebrated  by  poets  in 
language  which,  after  a  very  large  allowance  has  been  made  for 
flattery,  would  lead  us  to  believe  that  she  was  a  fine  woman ; 
and  her  rank  doubtless  heightened  her  attractions.  The  court- 
ship was  long.  The  hopes  of  the  lover  appear  to  have  risen 
and  fallen  with  the  fortunes  of  his  party.  His  attachment  was 
at  length  matter  of  such  notoriety,  that,  when  he  visited  Ireland 
for  the  last  time,  Rowe  addressed  some  consolatory  verses  to  the 
Chloe  1  of  Holland  House.  It  strikes  us  as  a  little  strange,  that 
in  these  verses  Addison  should  be  called  Lycidas,^  a  name  of 
singularly  evil  omen  for  a  swain  just  about  to  cross  St.  George's 
Channel. 

At  length  Chloe  capitulated.  Addison  was  indeed  able  to  treat 
with  her  on  equal  terms.  He  had  reason  to  expect  preferment 
even  higher  than  that  which  he  had  attained.  He  had  inherited 
the  fortune  of  a  brother  who  died  governor  of  Madras.  He  had 
purchased  an  estate  in  Warwickshire,  and  had  been  welcomed 
to  his  domain  in  very  tolerable  verse  by  one  of  the  neighboring 
squires,  the  poetical  fox  hunter,  WiUiam  Somerville.  In  August, 
1 7 16,  the  newspapers  announced  that  Joseph  Addison,  Esq., 
famous  for  many  excellent  works  both  in  verse  ^nd  prose,  had 
espoused  the  Countess  Dowager  of  Warwick. 

He  now  fixed  his  abode  at  Holland  House,  a  house  which  can 
boast  of  a  greater  number  of  inmates  distinguished  in  pohtical 
and  literary  history  than  any  other  private  dwelhng  in  England. 
His  portrait  still  hangs  there.  The  features  are  pleasing ;  the 
complexion  is  remarkably  fair ;  but  in  the  expression  we  trace 
rather  the  gentleness  of  his  disposition  than  the  force  and  keen- 
ness of  his  intellect. 

Not  long  after  his  marriage,  he  reached  the  height  of  civil 
greatness.     The  Whig  government  had,  during  some  time,  been 

1  In  pastoral  poetry,  a  favorite  name  for  a  shepherdess. 

2  In  pastoral  poetry,  a  favorite  name  for  a  shepherd.  Milton,  in  his 
famous  elegy  of  the  same  name,  applies  it  to  his  friend  Edward  King,  who 
was  drowned  in  St.  George's  Channel. 


no  MACAULAY. 

torn  by  internal  dissensions.  Lord  Townshend  ^  led  one  section 
of  the  cabinet,  Lord  Sunderland  the  other.  At  length,  in  the 
spring  of  1717,  Sunderland  triumphed.  Townshend  retired  from 
office,  and  was  accompanied  by  Walpole  and  Cowper.  Sunder- 
land proceeded  to  reconstruct  the  ministry,  and  Addison  was 
appointed  secretary  of  state.  It  is  certain  that  the  seals  were 
pressed  upon  him,  and  were  at  first  declined  by  him.  Men 
equally  versed  in  official  business  might  easily  have  been  found ; 
and  his  colleagues  knew  that  they  could  not  expect  assistance 
from  him  in  debate.  He  owed  his  elevation  to  his  popularity, 
to  his  stainless  probity,  and  to  his  literary  fame. 

But  scarcely  had  Addison  entered  the  cabinet  when  his  health 
began  to  fail.  From  one  serious  attack  he  recovered  in  the 
autumn  ;  and  his  recovery  was  celebrated  in  Latin  verses,  worthy 
of  his  own  pen,  by  Vincent  Bourne,  who  was  then  at  Trinity  Col- 
lege, Cambridge.  A  relapse  soon  took  place,  and  in  the  follow- 
ing spring  Addison  was  prevented  by  a  severe  asthma  from 
discharging  the  duties  of  his  post.  He  resigned  it,  and  was  suc- 
ceeded by  his  friend  Craggs,  a  young  man  whose  natural  parts, 
though  little  improved  by  cultivation,  were  quick  and  showy, 
whose  graceful  person  and  winning  manners  had  made  him  gen- 
erally acceptable  in  society,  and  who,  if  he  had  lived,  would  prob- 
ably have  been  the  most  formidable  of  all  the  rivals  of  Walpole. 

As  yet  there  was  no  Joseph  Hume.^  The  ministers,  therefore, 
were  able  to  bestow  on  Addison  a  retiring  pension  of  fifteen  hun- 
dred pounds  a  year.  In  what  form  this  pension  was  given,  we 
are  not  told  by  the  biographers,  and  have  not  time  to  inquire ; 
but  it  is  certain  that  Addison  did  not  vacate  his  seat  in  the 
House  of  Commons. 

Rest  of  mind  and  body  seemed    to    have  reestabhshed    his 

1  Charles,  Viscount  Townshend  (i 674-1 738),  when  minister  at  the  Hague, 
negotiated  the  treaty  which  pledged  the  States  General  to  the  Hanoverian 
succession. 

2  An  English  economist  (i 777-1855),  a  member  of  Parliament  for  many 
years,  an4  active  in  the  promotion  of  many  reforms. 


THE   LIFE   AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON.  1 1 1 

health,  and  he  thanked  God,  with  cheerful  piety,  for  having  set 
him  free  both  from  his  office  and  from  his  asthma.  Many  years 
seemed  to  be  before  him;  and  he  meditated  many  works, —  a 
tragedy  on  the  death  of  Socrates,^  a  translation  of  the  Psalms,  a 
treatise  on  the  evidences  of  Christianity.  Of  this  last  perform- 
ance, a  part,  which  we  could  well  spare,  has  come  down  to  us. 

But  the  fatal  complaint  soon  returned,  and  gradually  prevailed 
against  all  the  resources  of  medicine.  It  is  melancholy  to  think 
that  the  last  months  of  such  a  life  should  have  been  overclouded 
both  by  domestic  and  by  political  vexations.  A  tradition  which 
began  early,  which  has  been  generally  received,  and  to  which  we 
have  nothing  to  oppose,  has  represented  his  wife  as  an  arrogant 
and  imperious  woman.  It  is  said  that,  till  his  health  failed  him, 
he  was  glad  to  escape  from  the  countess  dowager  and  her  mag- 
nificent dining  room,  blazing  with  the  gilded  devices  of  the  house 
of  Rich,  to  some  tavern  where  he  could  enjoy  a  laugh,  a  talk 
about  Virgil  and  Boileau,  and  a  bottle  of  claret,  with  the  friends 
of  his  happier  days.  All  those  friends,  however,  were  not  left  to 
him.  Sir  Richard  Steele  had  been  gradually  estranged  by  vari- 
ous causes.  He  considered  himself  as  one  who,  in  evil  times, 
had  braved  martyrdom  for  his  political  principles,  and  demanded, 
when  the  Whig  party  was  triumphant,  a  large  compensation  for 
what  he  had  suffered  when  it  was  militant.  The  Whig  leaders 
took  a  very  different  view  of  his  claims.  They  thought  that  he 
had,  by  his  own  petulance  and  folly,  brought  them  as  well  as  him- 
self into  trouble,  and  though  they  did  not  absolutely  neglect  him, 
doled  out  favors  to  him  with  a  sparing  hand.  It  was  natural  that 
he  should  be  angry  with  them,  and  especially  angry  with  Addi- 
son. But  what,  above  all,  seems  to  have  disturbed  Sir  Richard 
was  the  elevation  of  Tickell,  who  at  thirty  was  made  by  Addi- 
son undersecretary  of  state  ;  while  the  editor  of  the  *'  Tatler  "  and 
''Spectator,"  the  author  of  the  "  Crisis,"  the  member  for  Stock- 
bridge,  who  had  been  persecuted  for  firm  adherence  to  the  house 

1  Socrates  (469-399  B.C.),  the  great  Athenian  philosopher,  the  story  of 
whose  teachings  and  death  is  related  by  his  disciple,  Plato, 


112  MACAULAY, 

of  Hanover,  was,  at  near  fifty,  forced,  after  many  solicitations 
and  complaints,  to  content  himself  with  a  share  in  the  patent  of 
Drury  Lane  Theater.  Steele  himself  says,  in  his  celebrated  letter 
to  Congreve,  that  Addison,  by  his  preference  of  Tickell,  ** incurred 
the  warmest  resentment  of  other  gentlemen;"  and  everything 
seems  to  indicate  that,  of  those  resentful  gentlemen,  Steele  was 
himself  one. 

While  poor  Sir  Richard  was  brooding  over  what  he  considered 
as  Addison's  unkindness,  a  new  cause  of  quarrel  arose.  The 
Whig  party,  already  divided  against  itself,  was  rent  by  a  new 
schism.  The  celebrated  bill  for  limiting  the  number  of  peers 
had  been  brought  in.  The  proud  Duke  of  Somerset,  first  in  rank 
of  all  the  nobles  whose  rehgion  permitted  them  to  sit  in  Parlia- 
ment, was  the  ostensible  author  of  the  measure ;  but  it  was  sup- 
ported, and  in  truth  devised,  by  the  prime  minister.^ 

We  are  satisfied  that  the  bill  was  most  pernicious,  and  we 
fear  that  the  motives  which  induced  Sunderland  to  frame  it  were 
not  honorable  to  him ;  but  we  cannot  deny  that  it  was  supported 
by  many  of  the  best  and  wisest  men  of  that  age.  Nor  was  this 
strange.  The  royal  prerogative  had,  within  the  memory  of  the 
generation  then  in  the  vigor  of  life,  been  so  grossly  abused,  that 
it  was  still  regarded  with  a  jealousy,  which,  when  the  peculiar 
situation  of  the  house  of  Brunswick  ^  is  considered,  may  per- 
haps be  called  immoderate.  The  particular  prerogative  of  creat- 
ing peers  had,  in  the  opinion  of  the  Whigs,  been  grossly  abused 
by  Queen  Anne's  last  ministry ;  and  even  the  Tories  admitted 
that  her  Majesty,  in  swamping,  as  it  has  since  been  called,  the 
Upper  House,  had  done  what  only  an  extreme  case  could  jus- 
tify. The  theory  of  the  Enghsh  Constitution,  according  to  many 
high  authorities,  was  that  three  independent  powers  —  the  sover- 
eign, the  nobihty,  and  the  commons  —  ought  constantly  to  act  as 
checks  on  each  other.  If  this  theory  were  sound,  it  seemed  to 
follow  that  to  put  one  of  these  powers  under  the  absolute  con- 
trol of  the  other  two,  was  absurd.  But,  if  the  number  of  peers 
1  Lord  Sunderland.  2  Same  as  house  of  Hanover. 


THE  LIFE  AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON.  113 

were  unlimited,  it  could  not  well  be  denied  that  the  Upper  House 
was  under  the  absolute  control  of  the  Crown  and  the  Commons, 
and  was  indebted  only  to  their  moderation  for  any  power  which 
it  might  be  suffered  to  retain. 

Steele  took  part  with  the  Opposition,  Addison  with  the  Minis- 
ters. Steele,  in  a  paper  called  the  '"Plebeian,"  vehemently  attacked 
the  bill.  Sunderland  called  for  help  on  Addison,  and  Addison 
obeyed  the  call.  In  a  paper  called  the  "  Old  Whig  "  he  answered 
and  indeed  refuted  Steele's  arguments.  It  seems  to  us  that  the 
premises  of  both  the  controversialists  were  unsound ;  that  on 
those  premises  Addison  reasoned  well,  and  Steele  ill ;  and  that 
consequently  Addison  brought  out  a  false  conclusion,  while  Steele 
blundered  upon  the  truth.  In  style,  in  wit,  and  in  poHteness, 
Addison  maintained  his  superiority,  though  the  "  Old  Whig  "  is 
by  no  means  one  of  his  happiest  performances. 

At  first,  both  the  anonymous  opponents  observed  the  laws  of 
propriety.  But  at  length  Steele  so  far  forgot  himself  as  to  throw 
an  odious  imputation  on  the  morals  of  the  chiefs  of  the  adminis- 
tration. Addison  replied  with  severity,  but,  in  our  opinion,  with 
less  severity  than  was  due  to  so  grave  an  offense  against  morality 
and  decorum ;  nor  did  he,  in  his  just  anger,  forget  for  a  moment 
the  laws  of  good  taste  and  good  breeding.  One  calumny  which 
has  been  often  repeated,  and  never  yet  contradicted,  it  is  our 
duty  to  expose.  It  is  asserted  in  the  ''  Biographia  Britannica," 
that  Addison  designated  Steele  as  "  little  Dicky."  This  assertion 
was  repeated  by  Johnson,  who  had  never  seen  the  ''  Old  Whig," 
and  was  therefore  excusable.  It  has  also  been  repeated  by  Miss 
Aikin,  who  has  seen  the  ''  Old  Whig,"  and  for  whom,  therefore, 
there  is  less  excuse.  Now,  it  is  true  that  the  words  "  httle  Dicky  " 
occur  in  the  ''  Old  Whig,"  and  that  Steele's  name  was  Richard.  It 
is  equally  true  that  the  words  "  little  Isaac  "  occur  in  the  ''  Duen- 
na," 1  and  that  Newton's  name  was  Isaac.  But  we  confidently 
affirm  that  Addison's  httle  Dicky  had  no  more  to  do  with  Steele 

1  A  comic  opera  by  Richard  Brinsley  Sheridan,  produced  at  Covent  Garden 
Theater  in  1775. 
8 


114  MACAULAY. 

than  Sheridan's  httle  Isaac  with  Newton.  If  we  apply  the  words 
"  Httle  Dicky  "  to  Steele,  we  deprive  a  very  Hvely  and  ingenious 
passage,  not  only  of  all  its  wit,  but  of  all  its  meaning.  Little  Dicky 
was  the  nickname  of  Henry  Norris,  an  actor  of  remarkably  small 
stature,  but  of  great  humor,  who  played  the  usurer  Gomez,  then 
a  most  popular  part,  in  Dry  den's  *'  Spanish  Friar." 

The  merited  reproof  which  Steele  had  received,  though  soft- 
ened by  some  kind  and  courteous  expressions,  galled  him  bitterly. 
He  rephed  with  little  force  and  great  acrimony ;  but  no  rejoinder 
appeared.  Addison  was  fast  hastening  to  his  grave,  and  had,  we 
may  well  suppose,  Httle  disposition  to  prosecute  a  quarrel  with  an 
old  friend.  His  complaint  had  terminated  in  dropsy.  He  bore 
up  long  and  manfuUy ;  but  at  length  he  abandoned  all  hope, 
dismissed  his  physicians,  and  calmly  prepared  himself  to  die. 

His  works  he  intrusted  to  the  care  of  TickeH,  and  dedicated 
them  a  very  few  days  before  his  death  to  Craggs,  in  a  letter  writ- 
ten with  the  sweet  and  graceful  eloquence  of  a  Saturday's  "  Spec- 
tator." In  this  his  last  composition  he  alluded  to  his  approach- 
ing end  in  words  so  manly,  so  cheerful,  and  so  tender,  that  it  is 
difficult  to  read  them  without  tears.  At  the  same  time,  he  ear- 
nestly recommended  the  interests  of  Tickell  to  the  care  of  Craggs. 

Within  a  few  hours  of  the  time  at  which  this  dedication  was 
written,  Addison  sent  to  beg  Gay,i  who  was  then  living  by  his 
wits  about  town,  to  come  to  HoHand  House.  Gay  went,  and 
was  received  with  great  kindness.  To  his  amazement,  his  for- 
giveness was  implored  by  the  dying  man.  Poor  Gay,  the  most 
good-natured  and  simple  of  mankind,  could  not  imagine  what 
he  had  to  forgive.  There  was,  however,  some  wrong,  the  remem- 
brance of  which  weighed  on  Addison's  mind,  and  which  he  de- 
clared himself  anxious  to  repair.  He  was  in  a  state  of  extreme 
exhaustion,  and  the  parting  was  doubtless  a  friendly  one  on  both 
sides.     Gay  supposed  that  some  plan  to  serve  him  had  been  in 

1  John  Gay  (1688-1732),  author  of  a  series  of  pastorals  entitled  the  Shep> 
herd's  Week,  of  a  collection  of  fables  in  verse,  and  of  the  Beggar's  Opera,  the 
best  specimen  of  ballad  opera  in  the  English  language. 


THE  LIFE  AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON.  115 

agitation  at  court,  and  had  been  frustrated  by  Addison's  influ- 
ence. Nor  is  this  improbable.  Gay  had  paid  assiduous  court 
to  the  royal  family.  But  in  the  Queen's  days  he  had  been  the 
eulogist  of  Bohngbroke,  and  was  still  connected  with  many 
Tories.  It  is  not  strange  that  Addison,  while  heated  by  conflict, 
should  have  thought  himself  justified  in  obstructing  the  prefer- 
ment of  one  whom  he  might  regard  as  a  political  enemy.  Neither 
is  it  strange,  that  when  reviewing  his  whole  life,  and  earnestly 
scrutinizing  all  his  motives,  he  should  think  that  he  had  acted 
an  unkind  and  ungenerous  part  in  using  his  power  against  a  dis- 
tressed man  of  letters  who  was  as  harmless  and  as  helpless  as  a 
child. 

One  inference  may  be  drawn  from  this  anecdote.  It  appears 
that  Addison,  on  his  deathbed,  called  himself  to  a  strict  account, 
and  was  not  at  ease  till  he  had  asked  pardon  for  an  injury  which 
it  was  not  even  suspected  that  he  had  committed,  for  an  injury 
which  would  have  caused  disquiet  only  to  a  very  tender  con- 
science. Is  it  not,  then,  reasonable  to  infer,  that,  if  he  had  really 
been  guilty  of  forming  a  base  conspiracy  against  the  fame  and 
fortunes  of  a  rival,  he  would  have  expressed  some  remorse  for  so 
serious  a  crime  ?  But  it  is  unnecessary  to  multiply  arguments 
and  evidence  for  the  defense,  when  there  is  neither  argument 
nor  evidence  for  the  accusation. 

The  last  moments  of  Addison  were  perfectly  serene.  His  in- 
terview with  his  son-in-law  is  universally  known.  *'  See,"  he  said, 
"how  a  Christian  can  die."  The  piety  of  Addison  was,  in  truth, 
of  a  singularly  cheerful  character.  The  feeling  which  predomi- 
nates in  all  his  devotional  writings  is  gratitude.  God  was  to  him 
the  all -wise  and  all-powerful  friend  who  had  watched  over  his 
cradle  with  more  than  maternal  tenderness ;  who  had  listened  to 
his  cries  before  they  could  form  themselves  in  prayer ;  who  had 
preserved  his  youth  from  the  snares  of  vice ;  who  had  made  his 
cup  run  over  with  worldly  blessings ;  who  had  doubled  the  value 
of  those  blessings  by  bestowing  a  thankful  heart  to  enjoy  them, 
and  dear  friends  to  partake  them ;  who  had  rebuked  the  waves 


Ii6  MACAULAY, 

of  the  Ligurian  gulf,  had  purified  the  autumnal  air  of  the  Cam- 
pagna,!  and  had  restrained  the  avalanches  of  Mont  Cenis.  Of 
the  Psalms,  his  favorite  was  that  which  represents  the  Ruler  of 
all  things  under  the  endearing  image  of  a  shepherd,  whose  crook 
guides  the  flock  safe,  through  gloomy  and  desolate  glens,  to 
meadows  well  watered,  and  rich  with  herbage.  On  that  good- 
ness to  which  he  ascribed  all  the  happiness  of  his  life,  he  relied 
in  the  hour  of  death  with  the  love  which  casteth  out  fear.  He 
died  on  the  17th  of  June,  17 19.  He  had  just  entered  on  his 
forty-eighth  year. 

His  body  lay  in  state  in  the  Jerusalem  Chamber,^  and  was 
borne  thence  to  the  Abbey  at  dead  of  night.  The  choir  sang  a 
funeral  hymn.  Bishop  Atterbury,  one  of  those  Tories  who  had 
loved  and  honored  the  most  accomplished  of  the  Whigs,  met  the 
corpse,  and  led  the  procession  by  torchHght,  round  the  shrine  of 
St.  Edward  ^  and  the  graves  of  the  Plantagenets,^  to  the  chapel 
of  Henry  VII.  On  the  north  side  of  that  chapel,  in  the 
vault  of  the  house  of  Albemarle,  the  coffin  of  Addison  lies  next 
to  the  coffin  of  Montague.  Yet  a  few  months,  and  the  same 
mourners  passed  again  along  the  same  aisle.  The  same  sad 
anthem  was  again  chanted.  The  same  vault  was  again  opened, 
and  the  coffin  of  Craggs  was  placed  close  to  the  coffin  of  Addison. 

Many  tributes  were  paid  to  the  memory  of  Addison ;  but  one 
alone  is  now  remembered.  Tickell  bewailed  his  friend  in  an 
elegy  which  would  do  honor  to  the  greatest  name  in  our  hterature, 
and  which  unites  the  energy  and  magnificence  of  Dryden  to  the 
tenderness  and  purity  of  Cowper.^     This  fine  poem  was  prefixed 

1  A  district  of  Southern  Italy,  considered  one  of  the  most  unhealthy  tracts 
in  Europe. 

2  A  room  or  hall  in  Westminster  Abbey ;  so  called  from  the  pictures  or 
tapestries  on  the  wall,  of  stories  from  the  history  of  Jerusalem.  The  famous 
Westminster  Assembly  convened  there  in  1643. 

3  Edward  the  Confessor,  King  of  England  1041-66. 

4  A  line  of  English  Kings,  from  Henry  II.  to  Richard  III. 

5  William  Cowper  (i  731-1800),  author  of  the  Task,  and  many  delightful 
shorter  poems. 


THE  LIFE  AND    WRITINGS   OF  ADDISON  1 1 7 

to  a  superb  edition  of  Addison's  works,  which  was  pubhshed  in 
1 72 1  by  subscription.  The  names  of  the  subscribers  proved 
how  widely  his  fame  had  been  spread.  That  his  countrymen 
should  be  eager  to  possess  his  writings,  even  in  a  costly  form,  is 
not  wonderful ;  but  it  is  wonderful,  that,  though  English  litera- 
ture was  then  little  studied  on  the  Continent,  Spanish  grandees, 
Italian  prelates,  marshals  of  France,  should  be  found  in  the  hst. 
Among  the  most  remarkable  names  are  those  of  the  Queen  of 
Sweden,  of  Prince  Eugene,  of  the  Grand  Duke  of  Tuscany,  of 
the  Dukes  of  Parma,  Modena,  and  Guastalla,  of  the  Doge  of 
Genoa,  of  the  Regent  Orleans,  and  of  Cardinal  Dubois.  We 
ought  to  add  that  this  edition,  though  eminently  beautiful,  is  in 
some  important  points  defective ;  nor,  indeed,  do  we  yet  possess 
a  complete  collection  of  Addison's  writings. 

It  is  strange  that  neither  his  opulent  and  noble  widow,  nor 
any  of  his  powerful  and  attached  friends,  should  have  thought  of 
placing  even  a  simple  tablet,  inscribed  with  his  name,  on  the 
walls  of  the  Abbey.  It  was  not  till  three  generations  had  laughed 
and  wept  over  his  pages  that  the  omission  was  supphed  by  the  pub- 
he  veneration.  At  length,  in  our  own  time,  his  image,  skillfully 
graven,  appeared  in  Poets'  Corner.  It  represents  him,  as  we  can 
conceive  him,  —  clad  in  his  dressing  gown,  and  freed  from  his  wig, 
—  stepping  from  his  parlor  at  Chelsea  into  his  trim  little  garden, 
with  the  account  of  the  ''  Everlasting  Club,"  or  the  ''  Loves  of 
Hilpa  and  Shalum,"  just  finished  for  the  next  day's  ''  Spectator," 
in  his  hand.  Such  a  mark  of  national  respect  was  due  to  the 
unsuUied  statesman,  to  the  accomphshed  scholar,  to  the  master 
of  pure  English  eloquence,  to  the  consummate  painter  of  life 
and  manners.  It  was  due,  above  all,  to  the  great  satirist,  who 
alone  knew  how  to  use  ridicule  without  abusing  it,  who,  without 
inflicting  a  wound,  effected  a  great  social  reform,  and  who  recon- 
ciled wit  and  virtue,  after  a  long  and  disastrous  separation, 
during  which  wit  had  been  led  astray  by  profligacy,  and  virtue 
by  fanaticism. 


^9^^    fVl%Utm. 


ECLECTIC  ENGLISH  CLASSICS 


.   AN  ESSAY 


ON 


JOHN    MILTON 


BY 

LORD  MACAULAY 


NEW  YORK  •:•  CINCINNATI  •:•  CHICAGO 

AMERICAN    BOOK    COMPANY 


Copyright,  1894,  by 
American  Book  Company, 

Macaulay's  Milton 


INTRODUCTION. 


Thomas  Babington  Macaulay  was  born  in  Leicestershire, 
Oct.  25,  1800.  Before  he  was  ten  years  old  he  showed  a  decided 
bent  for  hterature,  and  a  good  deal  of  juvenile  prose  and  verse 
attests  his  precocity.  He  entered  Trinity  College,  Cambridge, 
in  1 81 8.  He  was  averse  to  mathematical  and  scientific  studies, 
but  achieved  much  distinction  at  the  university  by  his  poems 
and  essays,  and  by  his  speeches  in  the  debating  society.  He 
received  his  degree  in  1822,  and  four  years  later  was  admitted 
to  the  bar. 

When,  about  this  time,  commercial  disaster  befell  his  father, 
it  was  plain  that  Macaulay,  upon  whom  the  family  support  de- 
volved, could  not  count  for  maintenance  upon  his  chosen  profes- 
sion of  the  law.  At  the  instance  of  powerful  friends,  he  was  in 
1828  made  a  commissioner  of  bankruptcy,  and  two  years  after- 
wards he  entered  the  House  of  Commons  as  member  for  Calne, 
a  pocket  borough  in  the  gift  of  Lord  Lansdowne. 

In  1834  he  was  appointed  to  a  seat  in  the  Supreme  Council 
of  India.  This  place  he  held  till  1838,  and  the  munificent  sal- 
ary attached  to  it  (^^i 0,000)  gave  him  the  independence  need- 
ful for  the  carrying  out  of  his  great  literary  work,  the  "  History 
of  England."     His  "  Essays,"  by  which  he  is  best  known  to  the 

5 


6  INTRODUCTION, 

general  reader,  were  many  t)f  them  of  the  nature  of  preHminary 
historical  studies.  Before  his  pohtical  preferment  these  pieces 
had  served  to  increase  Macaulay's  slender  income ;  those  written 
after  his  return  from  India  were  the  outcome  of  choice  and 
greater  leisure. 

Macaulay  reentered  Parliament  in  1839 — this  time  as  mem- 
ber for  Edinburgh — and  became  secretary  of  war  in  Melbourne's 
ministry.  In  1846  he  was  paymaster  general,  as  Chatham  had 
been  before  him. 

The  first  two  volumes  of  his  history  appeared  in  1848,  and 
were  followed  by  two  more  in  1855.  Two  years  later  he  was 
raised  to  the  peerage.  He  died  of  heart  disease  in  December, 
1859,  and  was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey,  in  Poets*  Corner, 
near  the  statue  of  Addison. 

Macaulay  lacked  some  of  the  traits  we  are  accustomed  to  look 
for  in  lofty  natures.  We  are  told  that  he  was  ignorant  of  the 
deeper  emotions ;  that  his  sensibilities  were  not  delicate ;  that  he 
lacked  piety  of  mind,  had  no  sympathy  with  high  speculation, 
and  displayed  but  little  interest  even  in  the  practical  problems 
of  science  and  social  life.  On  the  other  hand,  his  virtues  were 
many  and  great.  He  was  an  affectionate  friend,  and  blameless, 
unselfish,  and  magnanimous  in  every  relation  of  life.  His  nature 
was  simple,  manly,  and  straightforward.  He  hated  Hes,  liars, 
and  all  evil ;  and  one  of  the  reasons  he  is  never  dull  is  that  he 
was  deeply  in  earnest  in  all  he  wrote. 

Macaulay's  powers  of  memory  were  very  great,  and  the  extent 
of  his  reading  has  perhaps  never  been  exceeded.  Like  Johnson, 
Coleridge,  and  other  men  of  great  information,  he  was  an  exu- 
berant talker ;  and  like  most  men  who  talk  well,  he  was,  it  may 
be,  a  poor  listener. 


INTRODUCTION,  7 

His  fame  rests  on  his  "  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome,"  his  "  His- 
tory of  England,"  and  his  ''  Essays."  It  is  with  the  last  that  we 
are  here  concerned.  Though  the  titles  of  the  essays  suggest  biog- 
raphy, most  of  them  are  in  fact  detached  chapters  of  history. 

Macaulay's  style  is  pecuHar  to  himself.  By  it  he  was  able  to 
give  to  written  language  a  good  share  of  the  glow  and  rush  of 
spoken  oratory.  Critics  have  pointed  to  his  wealth  of  epithet, 
the  rhythm  of  his  periods,  and  the  masterly  unity  of  each  of  his 
pieces.  Yet  beyond  the  reach  of  analysis  there  remains  a  some- 
thing that  is  Macaulay's  that  cannot  be  defined.  ^'  You  will  ask 
science  in  vain  to  tell  you,"  says  Saintsbury,  '*  why  some  dozen 
or  sixteen  of  the  simplest  words  in  language,  arranged  by  one 
man,  in  one  fashion,  make  a  permanent  addition  to  the  delight  of 
the  world,  while  other  words  differently  arranged  by  another  do 
not." 

The  essay  upon  the  poet  and  statesman  of  the  Commonwealth, 
of  which  this  book  furnishes  the  text,  and  which  appeared  in  the 
"  Edinburgh  Review"  of  1825,  while  not  the  first  of  Macaulay's 
essays  in  order  of  composition,  was  the  first  to  attract  attention  to 
the  rising  young  barrister  who  had  not  long  before  come  back  to 
London  from  the  university  with  a  brilliant  reputation,  and  who 
was  already  widely  known  in  the  literary  and  political  circles  of 
the  metropohs.  In  spite  of  redundancy  and  ornament,  —  defects 
which  are  readily  excusable  in  a  youthful  enthusiast,  and  which 
Macaulay  himself  in  the  maturity  of  his  judgment  condemned, 
• — and  a  tendency  to  obscure,  in  the  blaze  of  Milton's  renown, 
some  obvious  blemishes  of  conduct  and  character,  the  essay  was 
instandy  recognized  as  the  most  remarkable  contribution  to  the 
critical  literature  of  that  time,  —  a  verdict  which  the  lapse  of 
nearly  three  quarters  of  a  century  has  not  disturbed. 


8  INTRODUC-TION, 

John  Milton,  ''organ-mouth  of  England,"  as  Tennyson  styles 
him,  indisputably,  after  Shakespeare,  the  greatest  of  English 
poets,  was  born  in  London,  Dec.  9,  1608.  His  father,  whose 
name  was  also  John,  was  by  profession  a  scrivener.  The  house 
in  Bread  Street  in  which  Milton  was  born,  was  known  as  the 
Spread  Eagle,  from  the  device  of  an  eagle  with  outstretched 
wings  over  the  doorway.  Milton's  father  was  himself  a  man  of 
superior  talents,  who  had  been  educated  at  Oxford  University, 
but  had  afterwards  embraced  the  doctrines  of  the  Reformed 
Church.     He  was  the  poet's  first  teacher. 

In  his  tenth  year  the  son  was  placed  under  the  tuition  of 
Thomas  Young,  a  Puritan  minister  and  an  excellent  scholar. 
After  two  years  he  was  admitted  to  St.  Paul's,  a  grammar  school 
for  classical  instruction  chiefly,  where,  as  he  afterwards  wrote,  he 
was  ''  seized  with  such  eagerness  for  the  study  of  humane  letters, 
that  from  the  twelfth  year  of  my  age  I  scarcely  ever  went  from 
my  lessons  to  bed  before  midnight ;  which,  indeed,  was  the  first 
cause  of  injury  to  my  eyes." 

There  is  evidence  that  before  Milton's  school-days  were  over 
he  was  not  only  a  diligent  student  of  English  literature,  but  could 
read  French  and  Italian,  and  had  some  knowledge  of  Hebrew. 
The  father,  too,  though  of  a  serious  disposition,  was  a  man  of 
liberal  culture,  particularly  noted  as  a  musician  and  composer, 
and  it  was  from  him  the  poet  received  those  first  lessons  in  the 
delightful  art  which  was  to  be  the  solace  of  his  neglected  age, 
and  by  which  his  ear  was  first  attuned  to  the  majestic  harmonies 
of  ''  Paradise  Lost." 

With  his  early  readings  in  Spenser  and  in  Du  Bartas,  a  French 
rehgious  poet  of  the  sixteenth  century,  we  must  connect  Milton's 
first  efforts  in  Enghsh  verse.     Of  these,  the  earliest  that  remain 


INTRODUCTION,  9 

are  paraphrases  -of  two  of  the  Psalms,  pubHshed  in  his  later  life 
with  the  statement  that  they  were  written  in  his  sixteenth  year, 
the  last  year  of  his  stay  at  St.  Paul's  School. 

On  completing  the  course  of  study  at  St.  Paul's,  Milton  was 
admitted  a  pensioner  at  Christ's  College,  Cambridge,  in  1625, 
where  he  was  soon  distinguished  for  his  proficiency  in  classi- 
cal learning,  and  for  the  ease  and  elegance  of  his  Latin  versifi- 
cation. During  his  second  academic  year,  in  1626,  the  beautiful 
lines  "  On  the  Death  of  a  Fair  Infant,"  his  first  original  English 
poem,  were  written.  Milton  remained  at  Cambridge  for  seven 
years,  taking  his  master's  degree  in  1632,  in  his  twenty-fourth 
year. 

On  or  about  Christmas  day,  1629,  when  in  his  twenty-first 
year,  Milton  composed  the  ode  "  On  the  Morning  of  Christ's 
Nativity,"  which  Hallam  describes  as  "  perhaps  the  most  beauti- 
ful in  the  Enghsh  language."  To  the  same  period, — that  is,  in 
1630, — belongs  the  well-known  epitaph  on  Shakespeare,  which, 
as  far  as  is  known,  was  the  first  of  Milton's  writings  to  appear  in 
print. 

Milton's  parents,  in  sending  him  to  the  university,  had  in  view 
his  entering  the  Church — that  is,  the  English  Church  —  as  a  pro- 
fession, but  to  this  his  Puritan  training  and  his  own  convictions 
had  made  him  so  much  averse  that  the  project  was  abandoned. 
Before  leaving  college,  indeed,  he  had  expressed  a  preference  for 
a  literary  career,  for  which  his  genius  and  the  bent  of  his  studies 
had  so  evidently  destined  him  ;  and  on  repairing  to  the  new  home 
in  the  village  of  Horton,  about  seventeen  miles  from  London,  to 
which  his  father  had  retired,  he  addressed  himself  seriously  to 
this  design.  In  the  seclusion  of  this  retreat,  shut  out  from  the 
world  except  during  occasional  visits  to  London,  he, devoted  the 


1  o  IN  TROD  UC7TON. 

next  five  years  of  his  life  to  an  assiduous  review  of  the  Greek  and 
Latin  classics,  not  omitting  his  study  of  the  Italian  poets  and  his 
readings  in  English  hterature.  Of  this  literature  but  little  had 
been  written  to  interest  or  attract  the  student  prior  to  the  works 
of  that  brilliant  galaxy  of  conspicuous  men  of  Elizabeth's  ''spa- 
cious times,"  and  of  the  succeeding  reign. 

Among  the  poets  in  this  era  of  England's  literary  splendor, 
with  whose  works  we  may  reasonably  presume  Milton  to  have 
been  more  or  less  acquainted,  were  Spenser,  Marlowe,  Daniel, 
Shakespeare,  Beaumont,  Fletcher,  Ben  Jonson,  and  Chapman. 
Of  these  Spenser  was  undoubtedly  the  favorite,  Milton  being,  as 
Dryden  says,  Spenser's  **  poetical  son."  The  influence  of  the 
"  Faerie  Queene  "  and  the  "  Pastorals  "  was  clearly  traceable  in 
the  poems  which  he  was  now  composing  at  Horton,  and  these,  if 
"Paradise  Lost"  had  never  been  conceived,  would  have  amply 
satisfied  his  cherished  hope  of  **an  immortality  of  fame."  They 
were  the  sonnet  "  To  the  Nightingale,"  "  L'Allegro "  and  *'  II 
Penseroso,"  the  two  masques,  "Arcades"  and  "  Comus,"  and 
"  Lycidas." 

In  1638  Milton  left  England  to  make  his  long-contemplated 
visit  to  the  Continent,  then  in  a  greatly  disturbed  condition  by 
reason  of  the  Thirty  Years'  War.  After  a  brief  stay  in  Paris, 
he  proceeded  leisurely  on  his  journey  through  southern  France 
towards  the  goal  of  his  wishes,  Italy,  going  by  way  of  Genoa  and 
Pisa  to  Florence,  where  he  remained  for  two  months.  In  that 
city,  the  glorious  foster  mother  of  art  and  poesy,  Milton  explored 
the  galleries  and  museums,  and  was  soon  placed  on  a  footing  of 
friendship  with  many  of  its  learned  men,  to  whom  the  beauty  of 
his  person  and  his  elegant  scholarship  commended  him.  His 
most  interesting  meeting  of  this  kind  was  that  with  Galileo,  then 


IN  TROD  UCTION.  1 1 

living  in  a  suburb  of  Florence,  in  a  seclusion  enforced  upon  him 
by  the  Inquisition,  for  maintaining  that  the  earth  moves  round 
the  sun.  At  Rome  he  spent  two  months,  making  dihgent  study 
of  its  antiquities,  and  extending  his  acquaintance  among  its 
scholars  and  Hterati,  many  of  whom  were  Jesuit  priests.  Milton 
then  visited,  in  turn,  Naples,  Bologna,  Venice,  and  lastly  Geneva, 
setting  foot  again  in  England,  after  an  absence  of  little  more  than 
a  year,  in  the  summer  of  1639. 

With  his  resources  somewhat  depleted  by  the  expense  of  his 
travels,  Milton  settled  in  London,  and  undertook  the  instruction 
of  his  sister's  two  sons,  an  occupation  that  admitted  of  abundant 
leisure  for  the  prosecution  of  his  studies,  to  which  he  now  re- 
turned with  fresh  zest,  and  with  a  mind  greatly  expanded  and 
fructified  by  his  Itahan  journey. 

In  1625  James  I.  had  died,  and  his  son  Charles  had  come  to 
the  throne.  The  doctrine  of  the  ''  divine  right  "  of  kings,  though 
existing  as  a  sort  of  tradition  among  English  sovereigns,  was  now 
defined  and  formulated  for  the  first  time.  It  asserted  that  heredi- 
tary monarchy  was  established  by  direct  act  of  the  Supreme  Being, 
that  the  king  could  do  no  wrong,  and  that  no  human  power 
could  Hmit  or  abrogate  his  authority.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  if 
this  odious  doctrine  were  allowed  to  have  free  sway,  a  despotism 
might  be  set  up  on  English  soil  that  would  speedily  stifle  the  spirit 
of  liberty  which  was  now  widely  diffused,  and  deprive  the  people 
of  many  of  their  most  cherished  rights.  This  consummation  the 
people  were  making  ready  to  resist  to  the  death. 

In  such  a  contest  it  was  of  course  impossible  for  one  hke  Mil- 
ton, whose  love  of  freedom  had  been  instilled  into  him  from  his 
youth,  to  remain  neutral.  We  know,  indeed,  that  his  decision 
had  long  before  been  made.     He  was  not,  in  the  strictest  sense, 


1 2  INTROD  UCTION. 

a  Puritan.  Many  of  his  tastes  and  associations,  his  love  of  art 
and  letters  and  of  the  elegancies  of  life,  inclined  him  to  sympa- 
thy with  the  RoyaHsts,  or  Cavahers.  But  in  principle  a  democrat, 
these  traits  in  his  character,  so  far  from  making  him  half-hearted 
or  lukewarm,  only  served  to  intensify  his  hatred  of  tyranny,  and 
to  render  his  weapons  of  assault  upon  it  more  effective  and 
deadly. 

In  1629  the  House  of  Commons,  presenting  a  determined  re- 
sistance to  the  king's  encroachments  on  their  privileges  and  to  his 
repeated  violations  of  law,  had  refused  to  grant  the  supplies  he 
demanded,  and  had  extorted  from  him  the  Petition  of  Right,  by 
which  he  bound  himself  "  never  again  to  raise  money  without  the 
consent  of  the  Houses,  nor  imprison  any  person  except  in  due 
course  of  law,  nor  subject  his  people  to  the  jurisdiction  of  courts- 
martial."  This  solemn  compact,  however,  Charles  took  occasion 
soon  after  to  break.  He  dissolved  the  Parliament,  which  was 
not  again  convoked  until  1640,  and  took  the  reins  of  govern- 
ment into  his  own  hands.  Associating  with  himself  two  efficient 
and  willing  instruments  of  oppression,  Thomas  Wentworth,  Earl 
of  Strafford,  and  William  Laud,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  he 
reestablished  the  infamous  Star  Chamber  and  High  Commission 
Courts,  the  one  a  political,  the  other  a  rehgious,  inquisition,  in 
order  to  still  further  rivet  his  fetters  upon  the  English  people. 
To  make  this  more  effective,  a  standing  army  was  needed,  and 
to  provide  for  its  maintenance  he  revived  an  old  tax,  known  as 
"  ship  money,"  raised  in  time  of  war  for  maritime  defense,  never 
exacted  in  time  of  peace,  and  long  fallen  into  disuse.  This  act, 
together  with  others  as  arbitrary  and  illegal,  at  length  thoroughly 
roused  the  spirit  of  the  nation.  In  1640  that  memorable  assem- 
bly, the  Long  Parhament,  met,  and  the  flames  of  civil  war  were 


INTRODUCTION.  13 

finally  kindled.  This  brief  summary  of  events  has  been  given  in 
order  to  present  a  somewhat  connected  view  of  the  condition  of 
the  country,  and  of  the  state  of  parties,  at  the  time  Milton  began 
to  take  an  active  part  in  public  affairs. 

In  1 64 1  Milton  entered  the  lists  for  the  defense  of  liberty  in 
religion,  with  the  publication  of  the  treatise  "  Reformation  of 
Church  Disciphne  in  England,"  his  first  prose  work,  in  which 
occur  passages  of  subhmity  and  of  rhythmic  beauty  unsurpassed  \ 
in  our  prose  literature.  This  was  followed  by  other  tractates 
upon  the  same  subject,  in  one  of  which,  **  The  Reason  of  Church 
Government,"  partly  autobiographical,  he  utters  words  prophetic 
of  what  was  to  be  his  life's  crowning  work,  expressing  the  hope 
that  he  "might  perhaps  leave  something  so  written  to  after 
times,  as  they  should  not  willingly  let  it  die." 

In  1643  Milton,  after  a  brief  courtship,  married  Mary  Powell, 
daughter  of  a  Royalist  justice  of  the  peace  in  Oxfordshire.  She 
was  but  little  more  than  seventeen  years  of  age  when  he  brought 
her  to  the  new  home  in  Aldersgate  Street,  London,  to  which  he 
had  removed,  and  where  his  father  soon  after  came  to  live  with 
him.  The  young  wife  was  not  happy  in  this  Puritan  household, 
with  the  society  of  a  recluse  scholar  and  his  somewhat  austere 
way  of  Hving.  Yielding  to  her  entreaty,  Milton  presently  con- 
sented to  her  spending  the  summer  at  her  father's  house ;  but 
when  her  leave  of  absence  had  expired,  the  gayety  and  delights 
of  her  childhood's  home  seeming  doubly  sweet  to  her,  she  felt 
no  inclination  to  return.  To  Milton's  many  letters  she  made 
no  reply,  and  a  messenger  sent  with  a  more  urgent  request  was 
contemptuously  dismissed.  Discovering  his  mistake  too  late,  and 
with  the  view  to  justify  himself  in  the  step  he  was  contemplat- 
ing, he  published  a  tract  called  "The  Doctrine  and  Discipline  of 


14  INTRODUCTION. 

Divorce,"  which  he  had  actually  begun  to  write  before  his  wife 
had  left  him.  It  must  be  confessed  that  in  this  treatise  —  fol- 
lowed by  a  second  of  like  tenor  —  Milton  appears  in  no  very 
amiable  Hght,  as,  in  defending  his  thesis  with  great  display  of 
learning,  copious  reference  to  the  Mosaic  law,  and  quotation  of 
Old  and  New  Testament  texts,  he  shows  little  consideration  for 
the  young  and  simple  girl,  less  than  half  his  own  age,  who  had 
committed  her  future  life  and  happiness  into  his  hands.  No  pro- 
ceedings of  divorce,  however,  were  instituted,  and  some  time  after, 
through  the  intercession  of  friends,  a  reconciliation  was  effected, 
which  proved  a  lasting  one. 

In  1644  Milton  published  his  ''Tractate  on  Education,"  in 
which,  discarding  the  old  scholastic  methods  of  study,  he  outlined 
a  scheme  anticipating  by  nearly  two  centuries  the  enlightened 
views  which  now  prevail.  He  advocated  the  teaching  of  tJmigs 
rather  than  words.,  and  a  course  of  systematic  instruction  in  the 
facts  of  nature,  of  hfe,  and  of  science,  together  with  a  training  in 
virtuous  conduct  and  the  highest  literary  culture.  In  the  same 
year  appeared  the  "  Areopagitica,"  a  speech,  as  he  termed  it,  for 
the  liberty  of  unlicensed  printing,  against  the  oppressive  licensing 
system,  or  censorship  of  the  press,  which  had  been  in  operation 
for  some  time,  and  was  being  enforced  with  renewed  rigor.  This 
is  the  best  known  of  Milton's  pamphlets,  and  for  the  sustained 
vigor  and  majesty  of  its  style,  its  splendid  eloquence,  and  its  un- 
answerable logic,  is  justly  considered  his  greatest  work  in  prose. 

In  1645  Milton  made  a  collection  of  his  poems,  English, 
Latin,  and  Italian,  for  the  press,  in  which  "L'Allegro"  and  "II 
Penseroso,"  with  others,  written  long  before  at  Horton,  were 
printed  for  the  first  time.  In  this  year,  too,  the  civil  war  was 
drawing  to  an  end.     The  battle  of  Naseby  was  fought,  resulting 


'I NT  ROD  UCTION,  1 5 

in  the  complete  rout  of  the  Royahst  forces,  the  flight  of  King 
Charles  to  Scotland,  and  his  surrender  to  the  Parliamentary  army. 

In  1647  his  father  died,  a  parent  to  whose  unceasing  care  and 
affection  he  had  been  so  much  indebted,  and  to  whose  many 
virtues  he  had  borne  grateful  testimony  fifteen  years  before  in  a 
Latin  poem,  "Ad  Patrem."  During  this  year  Milton  was  busy 
in  collecting  material  for  a  Latin  dictionary  and  for  a  history  of 
Britain  from  the  earliest  times  to  the  Norman  Conquest,  and  in 
the  preparation  of  a  complete  **  Digest  of  Christian  Doctrine," 
labors  from  which  he  was  diverted,  however,  by  the  more  im- 
perative duties  which  he  was  presently  called  to  assume  in  the 
new  government. 

The  year  1649  was  a  momentous  one,  for  in  that  year,  with 
monarchy  destroyed  in  the  person  of  the  king,  were  laid  the 
foundations  of  a  republic,  known  to  all  after  time  as  the  Com- 
monwealth. To  its  constitution  Milton  at  once  gave  in  his  ad- 
hesion by  his  publication  of  the  ''Tenure  of  Kings  and  Mag- 
istrates," a  reply  to  the  pamphlets  and  sermons  of  the  English 
Presbyterian  clergy,  who  were  now  representing  the  moderate 
party,  and  were  protesting  against  the  execution  of  the  king. 

Milton,  now  in  his  forty-first  year,  was  selected  by  the  chiefs 
of  the  Republican  party  to  be  their  Latin  secretary  in  the  newly 
created  Council  of  State,  to  conduct  their  foreign  correspondence 
in  that  tongue  in  which  he  was  so  eminently  skilled,  and  which 
at  that  time  was  universally  in  use  for  that  purpose.  Among 
other  work  assigned  him  by  the  Council  was  a  reply  to  a  book, 
'*  Eikon  Basilike  "  (The  Royal  Image),  which  had  appeared  but 
a  short  time  after  the  king's  death,  and  which,  purporting  to  be 
by  the  king's  own  hand,  was  regarded  as  a  sort  of  spiritual  auto- 
biography of  his  last  years.      This  reply  was  called  *'  Eikono- 


l6  INTRODUCTION, 

klastes"  (Image-Breaker),  in  which,  following  the  text  of  the 
king's  book,  Milton  commented  upon  each  passage  in  a  spirit  of 
animosity  towards  the  royal  martyr,  more  trenchant,  direct,  and 
personal  than  he  had  shown  even  in  the  "  Tenure." 

His  great  labor  during  the  year  1650  was  the  preparation,  by 
order  of  the  Council,  of  the  "  Defensio  pro  Populo  AngHcano  " 
(Defense  of  the  English  People),  in  answer  to  Claude  de  Sau- 
maise,  better  known  by  his  Latinized  name  of  Salmasius.  The 
latter  was  a  Frenchman  born,  but  for  some  time  settled  in  Ley- 
den,  and  a  scholar  of  immense  erudition,  who  had  been  em- 
ployed by  Charles  II.,  then  in  refuge  at  the  Hague,  to  write  a 
defense  of  the  monarchy.  The  "  Defensio "  demolished  this 
apology  for  the  king  as  though  it  were  a  house  of  cards,  and  was 
the  first  of  Milton's  prose  works  to  give  him  celebrity  on  the  Con- 
tinent. In  reviewing  it,  however,  at  this  distance  of  time,  one 
cannot  fail  to  be  amazed  at  the  ferocity  which  Milton  displayed 
in  his  methods  of  attack,  and  at  the  abuse  and  scurrility  heaped 
without  stint,  and  so  undeservedly,  upon  Salmasius.  With  all 
due  allowance  for  the  customs  then  prevaihng  in  this  kind  of  war- 
fare, it  is  difficult  to  make  excuse  for  him,  or  to  reconcile  our 
ideal  of  his  character  with  the  author  of  this  defense.  A  melan- 
choly interest  attaches  to  it,  which  should  soften  the  asperity  of 
criticism,  for,  working  upon  it  night  and  day,  it  was  completed 
finally  at  great  and  irreparable  loss  to  himself,  —  that  of  his  sight. 

In  1654  his  Second  Defense  was  published,  one  of  the  most 
interesting  of  his  writings,  by  reason  of  its  numerous  passages  of 
autobiography,  its  eloquent  eulogy  of  Cromwell  and  other  nota- 
ble men  of  the  Commonwealth,  and  its  noble  self-defense  and 
expression  of  his  consolation  under  the  affliction  of  blindness, 
with  which  his  adversaries  had  reproached  him.     The  sensation 


INTROD  UCTION.  1 7 

created  on  the  Continent  by  this  work  was  enormous.  The  at- 
tention of  scholars  and  statesmen  in  France,  Germany,  Holland, 
and  Sweden  was  at  once  drawn  to  it,  and  we  are  told  that,  with- 
out exception,  every  foreigner  then  resident  in  London  in  an 
official  capacity,  called  upon  Milton  personally  to  offer  his  con- 
gratulations. It  would  be  idle,  perhaps,  to  speculate  how  widely 
its  influence  was  disseminated  in  those  countries,  but  unquestion- 
ably in  England  this  and  other  of  Milton's  prose  works  were 
largely  instrumental  in  instructing  the  public  conscience,  and  in 
upbuilding  and  fortifying  that  public  opinion  of  which  the  Com- 
monwealth had  been  a  natural  outgrowth,  and  which  has  ren- 
dered possible  constitutional  government  as  it  exists  in  England 
and  in  America  to-day. 

Milton's  first  wife  died  in  1652,  leaving  three  daughters;  and 
after  four  years'  widowerhood,  in  1656  he  married  Catherine, 
daughter  of  a  Captain  Woodcock  of  London,  who  died  within 
a  year  after  their  union,  and  to  whose  memory  he  paid  affection- 
ate tribute  in  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  his  sonnets. 

Of  the  long  series  of  letters  addressed  by  Milton,  as  Latin  sec- 
retary for  the  government,  to  the  foreign  powers,  more  than  two 
thirds  were  dictated  during  Oliver  Cromwell's  Protectorate,  a 
fact  remarkable,  if  it  is  considered  that  when  he  entered  the  Pro- 
tector's service,  in  1653,  he  had  become  totally  blind. 

It  was  in  May,  1658,  that  Milton  returned  to  the  design  of 
writing  an  epic  poem,  which  he  had  meditated  eighteen  years 
before,  soon  after  his  journey  to  Italy,  and  which  he  had  then 
thought  of  treating  in  the  form  of  a  sacred  tragedy.  The  myth- 
ical exploits  of  King  Arthur  and  his  Knights  of  the  Round  Table 
had  at  one  time  taken  a  strong  hold  upon  his  imagination,  and 
he  had  contemplated  making  them  the  subject  of  his  great  poem, 
2 


l8  INTRODUCTION, 

but  he  now  settled  finally  upon  that  of  ''  Paradise  Lost,"  in  which 
he  proposed  to  recount  the  story  of 

''Man's  first  disobedience  and  the  fruit 
Of  that  forbidden  tree. " 

Early  in  the  year  1660  Milton  pubhshed  the  ''Ready  and 
Easy  Way  to  Establish  a  Free  Commonwealth,"  the  last  of  his 
writings  of  this  kind  of  special  significance,  and  his  last  effort 
to  stay  the  returning  tide,  upon  the  topmost  wave  of  which  the 
"  Merry  Monarch  "  was  seated.  Two  months  later  the  Restora- 
tion was  accomplished,  and  Milton,  abandoning  his  post  only 
when  all  hope  was  gone,  and  leaving  his  home  secretly,  went 
to  live  in  hiding  with  a  friend  in  an  obscure  part  of  London. 
There  he  remained  in  concealment,  in  constant  danger  of  dis- 
covery, for  over  three  months,  while  his  fate  hung  in  the  bal- 
ance. His  escape  finally  from  the  doom  of  so  many  others,  far 
less  prominent  in  the  affairs  of  the  Commonwealth,  was  owing 
to  the  accidental  omission  of  his  name  from  among  the  "  excep- 
tions" in  the  bill  of  indemnity,  and  is  to  be  regarded  as  little 
short  of  miraculous. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  year  1662  he  had  dictated  about  one 
half  of  "  Paradise  Lost,"  the  actual  composition  of  which  he  had 
begun  in  1658,  four  years  before.  In  this  work  he  was  assisted 
somewhat  unwiUingly  by  his  daughters,  who,  strange  to  say,  had 
been  very  imperfectly  educated ;  and  some  of  the  friends  who 
were  still  faithful  to  him,  among  them  Thomas  Ellwood,  the 
Quaker,  aided  him  with  their  criticisms. 

In  this  year,  1662,  Milton,  then  fifty-four  years  old,  married 
for  his  third  wife  a  young  lady  of  good  family,  who  proved  a 
faithful  companion  and  helpireet  to  him.  to  the  end  of  his  life. 


INTRODUCTION.  19 

It  was  in  a  house  in  Artillery  Walk,  near  what  was  then  known 
as  Bunhill  Fields,  and  the  last  of  his  many  London  residences, 
that  ''Paradise  Lost"  was  completed,  in  the  autumn  of  1665, 
and  two  years  later,  in  1667,  after  thorough  revision,  it  was  given 
to  the  world. 

The  reception  of  such  a  poem,  with  the  "  Fall  of  Man  "  for  its 
theme,  in  which  were  to  be  found  in  such  rich  profusion  "things 
unattempted  yet  in  prose  or  rhyme,"  was  necessarily  cold  in  that 
irreverent  and  licentious  age.  But  among  the  learned  and  the 
judicious  few  it  speedily  gained  many  admirers.  Andrew  Mar- 
veil,  Milton's  old-time  friend  and  associate,  wrote  some  com- 
mendatory verses  upon  it,  and  Dryden,  recognizing  the  new  and 
greater  light  dawning  upon  England,  was  generous  in  its  praise. 

In  1670  .appeared  the  long  deferred  ''History  of  Britain." 
The  work  is  chiefly  valuable  to  students  of  Enghsh  literature 
for  its  entertaining  collection  and  abstract  of  the  British  legends 
of  the  mythical,  or  pre-Roman,  period,  and  those  pertaining  to 
King  Arthur. 

About  this  time,  Milton's  three  daughters  finally  separated 
from  him.  Long  dissatisfied  with  their  task  of  reading  to  him 
from  books,  many  of  them  in  foreign  tongues,  of  which  they 
knew  nothing,  and  chafing  under  his  parental  restraint,  they  de- 
termined to  make  provision  for  their  future  livelihood  by  learn- 
ing "  some  ingenious  sorts  of  manufacture  proper  for  women  to 
learn,"  for  which  purpose  he  furnished  them  the  means  of  sup- 
port, at  great  expense  to  himself,  out  of  his  impaired  estate. 

The  year  was  made  further  memorable  by  the  appearance  in 
one  volume  of  two  poems,  "  Paradise  Regained  "  and  "  Samson 
Agonistes."  The  "  Paradise  Regained,"  in  which  the  Evangel- 
ist's simple  story  of  Christ's  temptation  is  enriched  and  amplifiec] 


20  INTRODUCTION, 

in  the  glowing  fires  of  Milton  *s  imagination,  with  a  splendor  of 
diction  and  a  wealth  of  imagery  to  which  no  Enghsh  writer  since 
Shakespeare  could  make  pretension,  was  no  doubt  suggested  to 
him  some  years  before,  by  the  Quaker  Ellwood,  who  on  return- 
ing the  manuscript  of  '*  Paradise  Lost  "  remarked  :  "  Thou  hast 
said  much  here  of  Paradise  lost,  but  what  hast  thou  to  say  of 
Paradise  found  ?  "  "  Samson  Agonistes  "  is  a  lyrical  drama,  which, 
though  in  form  modeled  strictly  upon  those  of  ancient  Greece, 
Milton's  genius  has  made  an  English  classic,  elevated  and  inspir- 
mg  in  thought  and  language,  and  of  exquisite  metrical  structure. 
A  '^  Treatise  on  Logic,"  a  second  edition  of  his  ^'  Minor  Poems," 
and  a  tract  called  *'  True  Rehgion  and  Toleration,"  were  the  last 
works  upon  which  his  still  active  and  alert  mind  was  engaged. 

In  the  summer  of  1674  the  gout  was  making  serious  inroads 
upon  his  health,  but  it  was  not  until  autumn  that  the  disease  as- 
sumed a  threatening  form,  when,  after  a  brief  illness,  comparatively 
free  from  pain,  he  expired  on  Sunday,  Nov.  8,  1674,  wanting  but 
one  month  of  being  sixty-six  years  of  age.  He  was  buried  in  the 
church  of  St.  Giles,  Cripplegate,  London,  beside  his  father,  and 
according  to  the  rites  of  the  Church  of  England. 

A  posthumous  work  by  Milton,  a  "  Treatise  on  Christian  Doc- 
trine," was  discovered  in  1823  among  the  state  papers,  where  it 
had  been  lying  in  manuscript  for  over  a  hundred  and  fifty  years. 
This  was  edited  and  published  in  the  original  Latin  and  in  an 
Enghsh  translation,  by  Rev.  Charles  R.  Sumner,  in  1825,  and 
the  appearance  of  this  translation  was  the  occasion  of  the  fol- 
lowing essay  by  Macaulay.  In  this,  his  final  confession  of  faith 
as  we  may  consider  it,  Milton  appears  to  have  wandered  from 
his  primitive  Calvinistic  beliefs  to  something  almost  identical 
with  modern  Unitarian  doctrines. 


MILTON/ 

{Edinburgh  Eevcew,  August^  iSsjJ^ 

TOWARDS  the  close  of  the  year  1823,  Mr.  Lemon,  deputy 
keeper  of  the  state  papers,  in  the  course  of  his  researches 
among  the  presses  of  his  office  met  with  a  large  Latin  manu- 
script. With  it  were  found  corrected  copies  of  the  foreign  dis- 
patches written  by  Milton  while  he  filled  the  office  of  secretary, 2 
and  several  papers  relating  to  the  Popish  Trials  and  the  Rye 
House  Plot.^  The  whole  was  wrapped  up  in  an  envelope,  super- 
scribed, To  Mr.  Skijifier,  Merchant.  On  examination  the  large 
manuscript  proved  to  be  the  long  lost  essay  on  the  Doctrines  of 
Christianity,  which,  according  to  Wood  and  Toland,  Milton  fin- 
ished after  the  Restoration,  and  deposited  with  Cyriac  Skinner. 
Skinner,  it  is  well  known,  held  the  same  political  opinions  with 
his  illustrious  friend.  It  is  therefore  probable,  as  Mr.  Lemon 
conjectures,  that  he  may  have  fallen  under  the  suspicions  of  the 
government  during  that  persecution  of  the  Whigs  ^  which  fol- 
lowed the  dissolution  of  the  Oxford  Parhament;^  and  that,  in 

1  Joannis  Miltoni^  Anglic  de  Doctrind  Christiana  Hbri  duo  posthumi.  A 
Treatise  on  Christian  Doctrine,  compiled  from  the  Holy  Scriptures  alone. 
By  John  Milton,  translated  from  the  original  by  Charles  R.  Sumner,  M.  A., 
etc.,  1825. 

2  See  Introduction,  p.  15. 

3  A  conspiracy  to  assassinate  Charles  II.  It  was  discovered,  and  several 
prominent  persons  implicated  in  it  suffered  death. 

4  A  political  party  which  took  its  rise  in  the  reign  of  Charles  I.,  and 
which  was  devoted  to  the  cause  of  popular  rights. 

5  During  the  civil  war,  Oxford  was  for  a  time  the  headquarters  of  King 
Charles,  and  the  meeting  place  of  his  Parliaments. 

21 


22  MACAULAY, 

consequence  of  a  general  seizure  of  his  papers,  this  work  may 
have  been  brought  to  the  office  in  which  it  has  been  found. 
But  whatever  the  adventures  of  the  manuscript  may  have  been, 
no  doubt  can  exist  that  it  is  a  genuine  reHc  of  the  great  poet. 

Mr.  Sumner,  who  was  commanded  by  his  Majesty  to  edit  and 
translate  the  treatise,  has  acquitted  himself  of  his  task  in  a  man- 
ner honorable  to  his  talents  and  to  his  character.  His  version  is 
not,  indeed,  very  easy  or  elegant ;  but  it  is  entitled  to  the  praise 
of  clearness  and  fidelity.  His  notes  abound  with  interesting  quo- 
tations, and  have  the  rare  merit  of  really  elucidating  the  text. 
The  preface  is  evidently  the  work  of  a  sensible  and  candid  man, 
firm  in  his  own  religious  opinions,  and  tolerant  towards  those  of 
others. 

The  book  itself  will  not  add  much  to  the  fame  of  Milton.  It 
is,  like  all  his  Latin  works,  well  written,  though  not  exactly  in 
the  style  of  the  prize  essays  of  Oxford  and  Cambridge.^  There 
is  no  elaborate  imitation  of  classical  antiquity,  no  scrupulous 
purity,  none  of  the  ceremonial  cleanness  which  characterizes  the 
diction  of  our  academical  Pharisees.  The  author  does  not  at- 
tempt to  polish  and  brighten  his  composition  into  the  Ciceronian  ^ 
gloss  and  brilliancy.  He  does  not,  in  short,  sacrifice  sense  and 
spirit  to  pedantic  refinements.  The  nature  of  his  subject  com- 
pelled him  to  use  many  words 

**  That  would  have  made  Quintilian  ^  stare  and  gasp." 

But  he  writes  with  as  much  ease  and  freedom  as  if  Latin  were 
his  mother  tongue  ;  and,  where  he  is  least  happy,  his  failure  seems 
to  arise  from  the  carelessness  of  a  native,  not  from  the  ignorance 

1  Oxford  and  Cambridge  are  the  two  great  universities  of  England. 

2  Marcus  TuUius  Cicero  (106-43  B.C.),  an  orator,  statesman,  and  man 
of  letters  of  the  first  rank  in  ancient  Rome.  With  a  somewhat  diffuse  and 
ornate  style,  he  possessed  great  vehemence  and  power  of  invective. 

3  Quintilian  (A.D.  35-96),  a  teacher  of  eloquence  in  Rome,  who  wrote 
a  complete  treatise  on  rhetoric  and  oratory.  The  line  is  from  one  of  Milton's 
sonnets. 


MILTON.  23 

of  a  foreigner.  We  may  apply  to  him  what  Denham  ^  with  great 
felicity  says  of  Cowley.^  He  wears  the  garb,  but  not  the  clothes, 
of  the  ancients. 

Throughout  the  volume  are  discernible  the  traces  of  a  power- 
ful and  independent  mind,  emancipated  from  the  influence  of 
authority,  and  devoted  to  the  search  of  truth.  Milton  professes 
to  form  his  system  from  the  Bible  alone ;  and  his  digest  of  scrip- 
tural texts  is  certainly  among  the  best  that  have  appeared.  But 
he  is  not  always  so  happy  in  his  inferences  as  in  his  citations. 

Some  of  the  heterodox  doctrines  which  he  avows  seem  to  have 
excited  considerable  amazement,  particularly  his  Arianism,^  and 
his  theory  on  the  subject  of  polygamy.^  Yet  we  can  scarcely 
conceive  that  any  person  could  have  read  the  ''  Paradise  Lost " 
without  suspecting  him  of  the  former ;  nor  do  we  think  that  any 
reader,  acquainted  with  the  history  of  his  life,  ought  to  be  much 
startled  at  the  latter.  The  opinions  which  he  has  expressed  re- 
specting the  nature  of  the  Deity,  the  eternity  of  matter,  and  the 
observation  of  the  Sabbath,  might,  we  think,  have  caused  more 
just  surprise. 

But  we  will  not  go  into  the  discussion  of  these  points.  The 
book,  were  it  far  more  orthodox  or  far  more  heretical  than  it  is, 
would  not  much  edify  or  corrupt  the  present  generation.  The 
men  of  our  time  are  not  to  be  converted  or  perverted  by  quartos.^ 
A  few  more  days  and  this  essay  will  follow  the  "  Defensio  Pop- 
uli "  ^  to  the  dust  and  silence  of  the  upper  shelf.     The  name  of 

1  Sir  John  Denham  (1615-68),  a  writer  and  poet  contemporary  with  Mil- 
ton, chiefly  known  by  his  Cooper's  Hill,  a  poem  descriptive  of  the  Thames. 

2  Abraham  Cowley  (1618-67),  a  poet  highly  esteemed  in  his  time,  best 
known  to  modern  readers  by  his  essays,  written  in  an  easy  and  graceful 
style.      He  was  a  Royalist  in  the  civil  war. 

3  A  theological  system,  named  after  Arius,  a  presbyter  of  Alexandria  (third 
century),  denying  a  trinity  of  coequal  persons  in  the  Godhead. 

4  A  plurality  of  wives.  Milton's  views  on  the  subject  are  found  in  his 
works  on  divorce. 

5  Books  in  which  the  leaves  are  twice  folded,  making  four  leaves. 

6  See  Introduction,  p.  16. 


24  MACAU  LAY. 

its  author,  and  the  remarkable  circumstances  attending  its  pub- 
lication, will  secure  to  it  a  certain  degree  of  attention.  For  a 
month  or  two  it  will  occupy  a  few  minutes  of  chat  in  every 
drawing-room,  and  a  few  columns  in  every  magazine ;  and  it 
will  then,  to  borrow  the  elegant  language  of  the  playbills,  be 
withdrawn  to  make  room  for  the  forthcoming  novelties. 

We  wish,  however,  to  avail  ourselves  of  the  interest,  transient 
as  it  may  be,  which  this  work  has  excited.  The  dexterous  Capu- 
chins ^  never  choose  to  preach  on  the  life  and  miracles  of  a  saint 
till  they  have  awakened  the  devotional  feehngs  of  their  auditors 
by  exhibiting  some  reHc  of  him,  —  a  thread  of  his  garment,  a  lock 
of  his  hair,  or  a  drop  of  his  blood.  On  the  same  principle,  we 
intend  to  take  advantage  of  the  late  interesting  discovery,  and, 
while  this  memorial  of  a  great  and  good  man  is  still  in  the  hands 
of  all,  to  say  something  of  his  moral  and  intellectual  qualities. 
Nor,  we  are  convinced,  will  the  severest  of  our  readers  blame  us 
if,  on  an  occasion  like  the  present,  we  turn  for  a  short  time  from 
the  topics  of  the  day,  to  commemorate,  in  all  love  and  reverence, 
the  genius  and  virtues  of  John  Milton,  the  poet,  the  statesman, 
the  philosopher,  the  glory  of  English  literature,  the  champion 
and  the  martyr  of  English  liberty. 

It  is  by  his  poetry  that  Milton  is  best  known ;  and  it  is  of  his 
poetry  that  we  wish  first  to  speak.  By  the  general  suffrage  of 
the  civihzed  world,  his  place  has  been  assigned  among  the  great- 
est masters  of  the  art.  His  detractors,  however,  though  outvoted, 
have  not  been  silenced.  There  are  many  critics,  and  some  of 
great  name,  who  contrive  in  the  same  breath  to  extol  the  poems 
and  to  decry  the  poet.  The  works  they  acknowledge,  consid- 
ered in  themselves,  may  be  classed  among  the  noblest  produc- 
tions of  the  human  mind.  But  they  will  not  allow  the  author  to 
rank  with  those  great  men,  who,  born  in  the  infancy  of  civiliza- 
tion, supplied  by  their  own  powers  the  want  of  instruction ;  and, 

1  A  branch  of  the  Franciscan  Order  in  the  Roman  Catholic  Church,  so 
named  from  the  capuche^  or  cowl,  worn  by  the  monks  in  imitation  of 
St.  Francis. 


MILTON,  25 

though  destitute  of  models  themselves,  bequeathed  to  posterity 
models  which  defy  imitation.  Milton,  it  is  said,  inherited  what 
his  predecessors  created :  he  Hved  in  an  enhghtened  age ;  he  re- 
ceived a  finished  education ;  and  we  must,  therefore,  if  we  would 
form  a  just  estimate  of  his  powers,  make  large  deductions  in  con- 
sideration of  these  advantages. 

We  venture  to  say,  on  the  contrary,  paradoxical  as  the  remark 
may  appear,  that  no  poet  has  ever  had  to  struggle  with  more 
unfavorable  circumstances  than  Milton.  He  doubted,  as  he  has 
himself  owned,  whether  he  had  not  been  born  ''  an  age  too  late." 
For  this  notion  Johnson  ^  has  thought  fit  to  make  him  the  butt 
of  much  clumsy  ridicule.  The  poet,  we  beheve,  understood  the 
nature  of  his  art  better  than  the  critic.  He  knew  that  his  poet- 
ical genius  derived  no  advantage  from  the  civilization  which  sur- 
rounded him,  or  from  the  learning  which  he  had  acquired ;  and 
he  looked  back  with  something  like  regret  to  the  ruder  age  of 
simple  words  and  vivid  impressions. 

We  think  that  as  civihzation  advances  poetry  almost  necessa- 
rily dechnes.  Therefore,  though  we  fervently  admire  those  great 
works  of  imagination  which  have  appeared  in  dark  ages,  we  do 
not  admire  them  the  more  because  they  have  appeared  in  dark 
ages.  On  the  contrary,  we  hold  that  the  most  wonderful  and 
splendid  proof  of  genius  is  a  great  poem  produced  in  a  civihzed 
age.  We  cannot  understand  why  those  who  beheve  in  that  most 
orthodox  article  of  literary  faith,  that  the  earliest  poets  are  gen- 
erally the  best,  should  wonder  at  the  rule  as  if  it  were  the  excep- 
tion. Surely,  the  uniformity  of  the  phenomenon  indicates  a  cor- 
responding uniformity  in  the  cause. 

The  fact  is,  that  common  observers  reason  from  the  progress 
of  the  experimental  sciences  to  that  of  the  imitative  arts.     The 

1  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson  (1709-84),  the  most  famous  man  of  letters  of  the 
eighteenth  century  in  England.  He  wrote  an  English  Dictionary,  The  Ram- 
bler (a  series  of  papers  in  the  style  of  The  Spectator),  Lives  of  the  Poets,  etc. 
His  Life  of  Milton  does  scant  justice  to  the  poet,  owing  to  Johnson's  violent 
Tory  prejudices. 


26  MACAULAY, 

improvement  of  the  former  is  gradual  and  slow.  Ages  are  spent 
in  collecting  materials,  ages  more  in  separating  and  combining 
them.  Even  when  a  system  has  been  formed,  there  is  still  some- 
thing to  add,  to  alter,  or  to  reject.  Every  generation  enjoys  the 
use  of  a  vast  hoard  bequeathed  to  it  by  antiquity,  and  trans- 
mits that  hoard,  augmented  by  fresh  acquisitions,  to  future  ages. 
In  these  pursuits,  therefore,  the  first  speculators  lie  under  great 
disadvantages,  and,  even  when  they  fail,  are  entitled  to  praise. 
Their  pupils,  with  far  inferior  intellectual  powers,  speedily  sur- 
pass them  in  actual  attainments.  Every  girl  who  has  read  Mrs. 
Marcet'si  little  dialogues  on  political  economy  could  teach  Monta- 
gue 2  or  Walpole  ^  many  lessons  in  finance.  Any  inteUigent  man 
may  now,  by  resolutely  applying  himself  for  a  few  years  to  mathe- 
matics, learn  more  than  the  great  Newton^  knew  after  half  a  cen- 
tury of  study  and  meditation. 

But  it  is  not  thus  with  music,  with  painting,  or  with  sculpture. 
Still  less  is  it  thus  with  poetry.  The  progress  of  refinement  rarely 
supplies  these  arts  with  better  objects  of  imitation.  It  may 
indeed  improve  the  instruments  which  are  necessary  to  the  me- 
chanical operations  of  the  musician,  the  sculptor,  and  the  painter. 
But  language,  the  machine  of  the  poet,  is  best  fitted  for  his  pur- 
pose in  its  rudest  state.  Nations,  like  individuals,  first  perceive 
and  then  abstract.  They  advance  from  particular  images  to 
general  terms.  Hence  the  vocabulary  of  an  enlightened  society 
is  philosophical ;  that  of  a  half-civilized  people  is  poetical. 

1  Mrs.  Marcet  (i  769-1858),  a  writer  on  educational  subjects,  notably  nat- 
ural philosophy  and  political  economy.  The  latter  is  the  science  pertaining 
to  the  production  and  distribution  of  wealth. 

2  Charles  Montague,  Lord  Halifax  (1661-1715),  a  poet,  financier,  and 
statesman,  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  in  the  reign  of  William  III. 

3  Sir  Robert  Walpole  (1676-1745)  was  distinguished  as  a  statesman,  also 
as  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  under  George  I.  and  George  II. 

4  Sir  Isaac  Newton  (i 642-1 727),  the  greatest  of  English  mathematicians 
and  natural  philosophers.  He  discovered  the  law  of  gravitation,  shared  with 
Leibnitz  the  honor  of  discovering  the  calculus,  and  made  many  original  and 
brilliant  discoveries  in  optics. 


MILTON.  27 

This  change  in  the  language  of  men  is  partly  the  cause  and 
partly  the  effect  of  a  corresponding  change  in  the  nature  of  their 
intellectual  operations,  of  a  change  by  which  science  gains  and 
poetry  loses.  Generalization  is  necessary  to  the  advancement  of 
knowledge ;  but  particularity  is  indispensable  to  the  creations  of 
the  imagination.  In  proportion  as  men  know  more  and  think 
more,  they  look  less  at  individuals  and  more  at  classes.  They 
therefore  make  better  theories  and  worse  poems.  They  give  us 
vague  phrases  instead  of  images,  and  personified  qualities  instead 
of  men.  They  may  be  better  able  to  analyze  human  nature  than 
their  predecessors.  But  analysis  is  not  the  business  of  the  poet. 
His  office  is  to  portray,  not  to  dissect.  He  may  believe  in  a 
moral  sense,  like  Shaftesbury ; ^  he  may  refer  all  human  actions 
to  self-interest,  like  Helvetius;^  or  he  may  never  think  about  the 
matter  at  all.  His  creed  on  such  subjects  will  no  more  influence 
his  poetry,  properly  so  called,  than  the  notions  which  a  painter 
may  have  conceived  respecting  the  lachrymal  glands,  or  the  cir- 
culation of  the  blood,  will  affect  the  tears  of  his  Niobe,*^  or  the 
blushes  of  his  Aurora.^  If  Shakespeare  had  written  a  book  on 
the  motives  of  human  actions,  it  is  by  no  means  certain  that  it 
would  have  been  a  good  one.  It  is  extremely  improbable  that 
it  would  have  contained  half  so  much  able  reasoning  on  the  sub- 
ject as  is  to  be  found  in  the  "  Fable  of  the  Bees."     But  could 

1  Earl  of  Shaftesbury  (1671-1713),  a  philosopher,  who  in  his  Character- 
istics, written  in  a  superfine  style,  maintained  that  everything  in  the  world  is 
for  the  best. 

2  Helvetius  (171 5-71),  a  French  philosopher.  The  central  idea  in  his 
system  of  philosophy  was  that  self-interest  is  the  motive  power  in  human 
conduct. 

3  A  character  in  Greek  mythology,  who  had  twelve  children,  and  who 
taunted  Latona  for  having  only  two,  Apollo  and  Diana.  Latona,  enraged, 
compelled  her  children  to  slay  all  those  of  Niobe,  who  was  then  changed  into 
stone  on  a  mountain  in  Lydia.  From  this  stone,  drops  of  water  like  tears  were 
said  to  flow  every  summer. 

4  The  goddess  of  dawn,  according  to  the  Greek  myth,  who  preceded  the 
Sun  in  his  rising. 


28  MACAULAY, 

Mandevillei  have  created  an  lago?  ^  Well  as  he  knew  how  to 
resolve  characters  into  their  elements,  would  he  have  been  able 
to  combine  those  elements  in  such  a  manner  as  to  make  up  a 
man,  —  a  real,  Hving,  individual  man  ? 

Perhaps  no  person  can  be  a  poet,  or  can  even  enjoy  poetry, 
without  a  certain  unsoundness  of  mind,  if  anything  which  gives 
so  much  pleasure  ought  to  be  called  unsoundness.  By  poetry  we 
mean  not  all  writing  in  verse,  nor  even  all  good  writing  in  verse. 
Our  definition  excludes  many  metrical  compositions  which,  on 
other  grounds,  deserve  the  highest  praise.  By  poetry  we  mean 
the  art  of  employing  words  in  such  a  manner  as  to  produce  an 
illusion  on  the  imagination,  the  art  of  doing  by  means  of  words 
what  the  painter  does  by  means  of  colors.  Thus  the  greatest  of 
poets  has  described  it,  in  Hues  universally  admired  for  the  vigor 
and  felicity  of  their  diction,  and  still  more  valuable  on  account 
of  the  just  notion  which  they  convey  of  the  art  in  which  he  ex- 
celled :  — 

*'  As  imagination  bodies  forth 
The  forms  of  things  unknown,  the  poet's  pen 
Turns  them  to  shapes,  and  gives  to  airy  nothing 
A  local  habitation  and  a  name."  ^ 

These  are  the  fruits  of  the  "  fine  frenzy  "  which  he  ascribes  to 
the  poet, — a  fine  frenzy,  doubtless,  but  still  a  frenzy.  Truth,  in- 
deed, is  essential  to  poetry ;  but  it  is  the  truth  of  madness.  The 
reasonings  are  just ;  but  the  premises  are  false.  After  the  first 
suppositions  have  been  made,  everything  ought  to  be  consistent ; 
but  those  first  suppositions  require  a  degree  of  credulity  which 
almost  amounts  to  a  partial  and  temporary  derangement  of  the 
intellect.     Hence  of  all  people  children  are  the  most  imagina- 

1  Bernard  de  Mandeville  (1670-1733),  an  ethical  and  satirical  writer  who, 
in  his  Fable  of  the  Bees,  asserted  that  private  vices  are  public  benefits,  and 
that  all  virtue  has  its  root  in  selfishness. 
.    2  A  leading  character  in  Shakespeare's  Othello,  and  a  type  of  utter  depravity. 

3  Shakespeare's  Midsummer-Night's  Dream,  act  v.,  sc.  I. 


MILTON.  29 

tive.  They  abandon  themselves  without  reserve  to  every  illu- 
sion. Every  image  which  is  strongly  presented  to  their  mental 
eye  produces  on  them  the  effect  of  reality.  No  man,  whatever 
his  sensibiHty  may  be,  is  ever  affected  by  Hamlet  or  Lear^  as  a 
little  girl  is  affected  by  the  story  of  poor  Red  Ridinghood.  She 
knows  that  it  is  all  false,  that  wolves  cannot  speak,  that  there  are 
no  wolves  in  England.  Yet  in  spite  of  her  knowledge  she  be- 
lieves ;  she  weeps ;  she  trembles ;  she  dares  not  go  into  a  dark 
room  lest  she  should  feel  the  teeth  of  the  monster  at  her  throat. 
Such  is  the  despotism  of  the  imagination  over  uncultivated  minds. 
In  a  rude  state  of  society  men  are  children  with  a  greater 
variety  of  ideas.  It  is  therefore  m  such  a  state  of  society  that 
we  may  expect  to  find  the  poetical  temperament  in  its  highest 
perfection.  In  an  enhghtened  age  there  will  be  much  intelli- 
gence, much  science,  much  philosophy,  abundance  of  just  classi- 
fication and  subtle  analysis,  abundance  of  wit  and  eloquence, 
abundance  of  verses,  and  even  of  good  ones ;  but  little  poetry. 
Men  will  judge  and  compare ;  but  they  will  not  create.  They 
will  talk  about  the  old  poets,  and  comment  on  them,  and  to  a 
certain  degree  enjoy  them.  But  they  will  scarcely  be  able  to 
conceive  the  effect  which  poetry  produced  on  their  ruder  ances- 
tors,— the  agony,  the  ecstasy,  the  plenitude  of  behef.  The  Greek 
Rhapsodists,2  according  to  Plato,^  could  scarce  recite  Homer  ^ 
without  falling  into  convulsions.  The  Mohawk  ^  hardly  feels  the 
scalping  knife  while  he  shouts  his  death  song.  The  power  which 
the  ancient  bards  of  Wales  and  Germany  exercised  over  their 

1  Two  of  Shakespeare's  greatest  tragedies. 

2  The  Rhapsodists  were  a  class  of  men  in  ancient  Greece  who  went  from 
place  to  place  reciting  poetry,  principally  from  the  two  epic  poems  of  Homer, 
the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssey. 

3  A  great  philosopher  of  Athens,  born  about  427  B.C.  He  was  a  pupil 
of  Socrates,  of  whose  life  and  teachings  he  wrote  in  his  Dialogues. 

4  The  reputed  author  of  the  two  great  Greek  epic  poems,  the  Iliad  and 
the  Odyssey.  The  subject  of  the  former  is  the  ten  years'  siege  of  Troy,  and 
the  latter  describes  the  adventures  of  Ulysses  in  returning  from  Troy. 

5  The  Mohawks  are  a  tribe  of  North  American  Indians. 


30  M AC  AULA  Y. 

auditors  seems  to  modern  readers  almost  miraculous.  Such  feel- 
ings are  very  rare  in  a  civilized  community,  and  most  rare  among 
those  who  participate  most  in  its  improvements.  They  linger 
longest  among  the  peasantry. 

Poetry  produces  an  illusion  on  the  eye  of  the  mind,  as  a  magic 
lantern  produces  an  illusion  on  the  eye  of  the  body.  And,  as 
the  magic  lantern  acts  best  in  a  dark  room,  poetry  effects  its  pur- 
pose most  completely  in  a  dark  age.  As  the  hght  of  knowledge 
breaks  in  upon  its  exhibitions,  as  the  outlines  of  certainty  become 
more  and  more  definite,  and  the  shades  of  probabihty  more  and 
more  distinct,  the  hues  and  hneaments  of  the  phantoms  which 
the  poet  calls  up  grow  fainter  and  fainter.  We  cannot  unite  the 
incompatible  advantages  of  reahty  and  deception,  the  clear  dis- 
cernment of  truth,  and  the  exquisite  enjoyment  of  fiction. 

He  who,  in  an  enlightened  and  literary  society,  aspires  to  be 
a  great  poet,  must  first  become  a  little  child.  He  must  take  to 
pieces  the  whole  web  of  his  mind.  He  must  unlearn  much  of 
that  knowledge  which  has  perhaps  constituted  hitherto  his  chief 
title  to  superiority.  His  very  talents  will  be  a  hindrance  to  him. 
His  difficulties  will  be  proportioned  to  his  proficiency  in  the  pur- 
suits which  are  fashionable  among  his  contemporaries ;  and  that 
proficiency  will  in  general  be  proportioned  to  the  vigor  and 
activity  of  his  mind.  And  it  is  well  if,  after  all  his  sacrifices  and 
exertions,  his  works  do  not  resemble  a  Hsping  man  or  a  modern 
ruin.  We  have  seen  in  our  own  time  great  talents,  intense  labor, 
and  long  meditation  employed  in  this  struggle  against  the  spirit 
of  the  age,  and  employed,  we  will  not  say  absolutely  in  vain,  but 
with  dubious  success  and  feeble  applause. 

If  these  reasonings  be  just,  no  poet  has  ever  triumphed  over 
greater  difficulties  than  Milton.  He  received  a  learned  educa- 
tion ;  he  was  a  profound  and  elegant  classical  scholar ;  he  had 
studied  all  the  mysteries  of  Rabbinical  hterature;i  he  was  inti- 

1  Rabbinical  literature  (from  Hebrew  rabbi^  meaning  ''master")  is  that 
of  the  Jews  in  the  later  periods  of  their  history. 


MILTON.  31 

mately  acquainted  with  every  language  of  modern  Europe  from 
which  either  pleasure  or  information  was  then  to  be  derived. 
He  was  perhaps  the  only  great  poet  of  later  times  who  has  been 
distinguished  by  the  excellence  of  his  Latin  verse.  The  genius 
of  Petrarch  ^  was  scarcely  of  the  first  order ;  and  his  poems  in 
the  ancient  language,  though  much  praised  by  those  who  have 
never  read  them,  are  wretched  compositions.  Cowley,  with  all 
.  his  admirable  wit  and  ingenuity,  had  httle  imagination ;  nor  in- 
deed do  we  think  his  classical  diction  comparable  to  that  of  Mil- 
ton. The  authority  of  Johnson  is  against  us  on  this  point.  But 
Johnson  had  studied  the  bad  writers  of  the  middle  ages  till  he 
had  become  utterly  insensible  to  the  Augustan  2  elegance,  and 
was  as  ill  quahfied  to  judge  between  two  Latin  styles  as  a  habit- 
ual drunkard  to  set  up  for  a  wine  taster. 

Versification  in  a  dead  language  is  an  exotic,  a  farfetched, 
costly,  sickly  imitation  of  that  which  elsewhere  may  be  found  in 
healthful  and  spontaneous  perfection.  The  soils  on  which  this 
rarity  flourishes  are  in  general  as  ill  suited  to  the  production  of 
vigorous  native  poetry  as  the  flowerpots  of  a  hothouse  to  the 
growth  of  oaks.  That  the  author  of  the  ''  Paradise  Lost  "  should 
have  written  the  "  Epistle  to  Manso  "  ^  was  truly  wonderful.  Never 
before  were  such  marked  originahty  and  such  exquisite  mimicry 
found  together.  Indeed,  in  all  the  Latin  poems  of  Milton,  the 
artificial  manner  indispensable  to  such  works  is  admirably  pre- 
served, while,  at  the  same  time,  his  genius  gives  to  them  a  pecu- 
liar charm,  an  air  of  nobleness  and  freedom,  which  distinguishes 
them  from  all  other  writings  of  the  same  class.     They  remind  us 

1  The  greatest  of  Italian  lyric  poets  (1304-74),  and  one  of  the  most  learned 
men  of  his  time,  who  collected  and  transcribed  several  precious  Latin  manu- 
scripts. 

2  Referring  to  the  reign  of  the  first  Roman  emperor,  Augustus  (63  B.C.- 
A.D.  14),  a  period  of  great  refinement  in  literature,  as  shown  in  the  writings 
of  Horace,  Virgil,  Ovid,  and  others. 

3  A  Latin  poem  addressed  by  Milton,  when  in  Italy,  to  a  nobleman  by 
whom  he  was  entertained,  a  friend  of  the  poet  Tasso. 


32  MACAULAY, 

of  the  amusements  of  those  angehc  warriors  who  composed  the 
cohort  of  Gabriel :  — 

**  About  him  exercised  heroic  games 
The  unarmed  youth  of  heaven  ;   but  nigh  at  hand 
Celestial  armory,  shields,  helms,  and  spears, 
Hung  high,  with  diamond  flaming  and  with  gold."^ 

We  cannot  look  upon  the  sportive  exercises  for  which  the  genius 
of  Milton  ungirds  itself,  without  catching  a  ghmpse  of  the  gor- 
geous and  terrible  panoply  which  it  is  accustomed  to  wear.  The 
strength  of  his  imagination  triumphed  over  every  obstacle.  So 
intense  and  ardent  was  the  fire  of  his  mind,  that  it  not  only  was 
not  suffocated  beneath  the  weight  of  fuel,  but  penetrated  the 
whole  superincumbent  mass  with  its  own  heat  and  radiance. 

It  is  not  our  intention  to  attempt  anything  like  a  complete 
examination  of  the  poetry  of  Milton.  The  public  has  long  been 
agreed  as  to  the  merit  of  the  most  remarkable  passages,  the  in- 
comparable harmony  of  the  numbers,  and  the  excellence  of  that 
style  which  no  rival  iias  been  able  to  equal  and  no  parodist  to 
degrade,  which  displays  in  their  highest  perfection  the  idiomatic 
powers  of  the  English  tongue,  and  to  which  every  ancient  and 
every  modern  language  has  contributed  something  of  gi*ace,  of 
energy,  or  of  music.  In  the  vast  field  of  criticism  on  which  we 
are  entering,  innumerable  reapers  have  already  put  their  sickles. 
Yet  the  harvest  is  so  abundant  that  the  negligent  search  of  a 
straggling  gleaner  may  be  rewarded  with  a  sheaf. 

The  most  striking  characteristic  of  the  poetry  of  Milton  is  the 
extreme  remoteness  of  the  associations  by  means  of  which  it  acts 
on  the  reader.  Its  effect  is  produced,  not  so  much  by  what  it 
expresses,  as  by  what  it  suggests ;  not  so  much  by  the  ideas 
which  it  directly  conveys,  as  by  other  ideas  which  are  connected 
with  them.  He  electrifies  the  mind  through  conductors.  The 
most  unimaginative  man  must  understand  the  Ihad.^     Homer 

1  Milton's  Paradise  Lost,  Book  IV.,  lines  551-54. 

2  See  Note  4,  p.  29. 


MILTON.  ZZ 

gives  him  no  choice,  and  requires  from  him  no  exertion,  but 
takes  the  whole  upon  himself,  and  sets  the  images  in  so  clear  a 
light  that  it  is  impossible  to  be  blind  to  them.  The  works  of 
Milton  cannot  be  comprehended  or  enjoyed  unless  the  mind  of 
the  reader  cooperate  with  that  of  the  writer.  He  does  not 
paint  a  finished  picture,  or  play  for  a  mere  passive  listener.  He 
sketches,  and  leaves  others  to  fill  up  the  outline.  He  strikes  the 
keynote,  and  expects  his  hearer  to  make  out  the  melody. 

We  often  hear  of  the  magical  influence  of  poetry.  The  ex- 
pression in  general  means  nothing ;  but,  applied  to  the  writings 
of  Milton,  it  is  most  appropriate.  His  poetry  acts  like  an  in- 
cantation. Its  merit  lies  less  in  its  obvious  meaning  than  in  its 
occult  power.  There  would  seem,  at  first  sight,  to  be  no  more 
in  his  words  than  in  other  words.  But  they  are  words  of  en- 
chantment. No  sooner  are  they  pronounced,  than  the  past  is 
present  and  the  distant  near.  New  forms  of  beauty  start  at  once 
into  existence,  and  all  the  burial  places  of  the  memory  g\Y^  up 
their  dead.  Change  the  structure  of  the  sentence  ;  substitute  one 
synonym  for  another,  and  the  whole  effect  is  destroyed.  The 
spell  loses  its  power ;  and  he  who  should  then  hope  to  conjure 
with  it  would  find  himself  as  much  mistaken  as  Cassim  in  the 
Arabian  tale,  when  he  stood  crying,  "  Open  Wheat,"  "  Open  Bar- 
ley," to  the  door  which  obeyed  no  sound  but  "Open  Sesame." i 
The  miserable  failure  of  Dryden  2  in  his  attempt  to  translate  into 
his  own  diction  some  parts  of  the  ''  Paradise  Lost "  is  a  remark- 
able instance  of  this. 

In  support  of  these  observations  we  may  remark,  that  scarcely 
any  passages  in  the  poems  of  Milton  are  more  generally  known, 
or  more  frequently  repeated,  than  those  which  are  little  more 
than  muster  rolls  of  names.     They  are  not  always  more  appropri- 

1  An  East  Indian  grain.  The  name  is  used  in  one  of  the  tales  of  the 
Arabian  Nights  as  a  password  to  a  robbers'  cave. 

2  John  Dryden  (1631-1700),  eminent  as  poet  and  prose  writer.  Among 
his  works  is  a  translation  of  Virgil's  ^neid.  The  reference  here  is  to  his 
sacred  opera  based  on  Paradise  Lost. 

.3 


34  MACAULAY. 

ate  or  more  melodious  than  other  names.  But  they  are  charmed 
names.  Every  one  of  them  is  the  first  Hnk  in  a  long  chain  of 
associated  ideas.  Like  the  dwelling  place  of  our  infancy  revis- 
ited in  manhood,  like  the  song  of  our  country  heard  in  a  strange 
land,  they  produce  upon  us  an  effect  wholly  independent  of  their 
intrinsic  value.  One  transports  us  back  to  a  remote  period  of 
history.  Another  places  us  among  the  novel  scenes  and  manners 
of  a  distant  region.  A  third  evokes  all  the  dear  classical  recol- 
lections of  childhood, —  the  schoolroom,  the  dog-eared  Virgil,^  the 
holiday,  and  the  prize.  A  fourth  brings  before  us  the  splendid 
phantoms  of  chivalrous  romance, —  the  trophied  lists,  the  embroid- 
ered housings,  the  quaint  devices,  the  haunted  forests,  the  en- 
chanted gardens,  the  achievements  of  enamored  knights,  and  the 
smiles  of  rescued  princesses. 

In  none  of  the  works  of  Milton  is  his  peculiar  manner  more 
happily  displayed  than  in  the  ''Allegro"  and  the  *' Penseroso."^ 
It  is  impossible  to  conceive  that  the  mechanism  of  language  can 
be  brought  to  a  more  exquisite  degree  of  perfection.  These 
poems  differ  from  others  as  ottar  of  roses  differs  from  ordinary 
rose  water,  the  close-packed  essence  from  the  thin,  diluted  mix- 
ture. They  are,  indeed,  not  so  much  poems  as  collections  of 
hints,  from  each  of  which  the  reader  is  to  make  out  a  poem  for 
himself.     Every  epithet  is  a  text  for  a  stanza. 

The  ''  Comus  "  and  the  *'  Samson  Agonistes  "  are  works  which, 
though  of  very  different  merit,  offer  some  marked  points  of  re- 
semblance. Both  are  lyric  poems  in  the  form  of  plays.  There 
are,  perhaps,  no  two  kinds  of  composition  so  essentially  dissimilar 
as  the  drama  and  the  ode.  The  business  of  the  dramatist  is  to 
keep  himself  out  of  sight,  and  to  let  nothing  appear  but  his 
characters.  As  soon  as  he  attracts  notice  to  his  personal  feel- 
ings, the  illusion  is  broken.     The  effect  is  as  unpleasant  as  that 

1  Virgil  (70-19  B.C.),  a  pastoral  and  didactic  Roman  poet,  author  of  the 
-^neid,  the  greatest  Latin  epic. 

2  Allegro  and  Penseroso  mean  *'  mirthful  "  and  "  melancholy."  The  two 
opposite  emotions  are  beautifully  expressed  in  the  poems. 


MILTON.  35 

which  is  produced  on  the  stage  by  the  voice  of  a  prompter  or 
the  entrance  of  a  sceneshifter.  Hence  it  was  that  the  tragedies 
of  Byron  were  his  least  successful  performances.  They  resem- 
ble those  pasteboard  pictures  invented  by  the  friend  of  children, 
Mr.  Newberry,  in  which  a  single  movable  head  goes  round  twenty 
different  bodies,  so  that  the  same  face  looks  out  upon  us,  suc- 
cessively, from  the  uniform  of  a  hussar,  the  furs  of  a  judge,  and 
the  rags  of  a  beggar.  In  all  the  characters,— patriots  and  tyrants, 
haters  and  lovers, —  the  frown  and  sneer  of  Harold  i  were  discerni- 
ble in  an  instant.  But  this  species  of  egotism,  though  fatal  to  the 
drama,  is  the  inspiration  of  the  ode.  It  is  the  part  of  the  lyric 
poet  to  abandon  himself,  without  reserve,  to  his  own  emotions. 

Between  these  hostile  elements  many  great  men  have  endeav- 
ored to  effect  an  amalgamation,  but  never  with  complete  success. 
The  Greek  drama,  on  the  model  of  which  the  "  Samson  "  was 
written,  sprang  from  the  ode.  The  dialogue  was  ingrafted  on 
the  chorus,  and  naturally  partook  of  its  character.  The  genius 
of  the  greatest  of  the  Athenian  dramatists  cooperated  with  the 
circumstances  under  which  tragedy  made  its  first  appearance, 
^schylus  2  was,  head  and  heart,  a  lyric  poet.  In  his  time  the 
Greeks  had  far  more  intercourse  with  the  East  than  in  the  days 
of  Homer ;  and  they  had  not  yet  acquired  that  immense  superi- 
ority in  war,  in  science,  and  in  the  arts,  which,  in  the  following 
generation,  led  them  to  treat  the  Asiatics  with  contempt.  From 
the  narrative  of  Herodotus  ^  it  should  seem  that  they  still  looked 

1  Childe  Harold  was  the  first  of  his  many  poems  in  which  Lord  Byron 
( 1 788-1824)  gave  free  vent  to  the  cynicism  and  misanthropy  so  characteristic 
of  them  all. 

2  ^schylus,  Sophocles,  and  Euripides,  the  three  great  Greek  tragedians, 
flourished  in  the  fifth  century  B.C.,  and  represent  respectively  the  rise,  the 
culmination,  and  the  decline  of  Greek  tragedy.  Only  a  few  of  their  many 
dramas  survive.  The  greatest  work  of  y^schylus,  Prometheus  Bound,  was 
evidently  one  of  Milton's  sources  of  inspiration  in  writing  Paradise  Lost, 
although  Euripides  was  his  favorite. 

3  Herodotus,  born  about  484  B.C.,  was  called  "the  father  of  history." 
He  visited  and  wrote  about  most  of  the  then  civilized  portions  of  the  globe. 


36  MACAULAY. 

up,  with  the  veneration  of  disciples,  to  Egypt  and  Assyria.  At 
this  period,  accordingly,  it  was  natural  that  the  hterature  of  Greece 
should  be  tinctured  with  the  Oriental  style.  And  that  style,  we 
think,  is  discernible  in  the  works  of  Pindar  i  and  ^schylus.  The 
latter  often  reminds  us  of  the  Hebrew  writers.  The  Book  of 
Job,  indeed,  in  conduct  and  diction,  bears  a  considerable  resem- 
blance to  some  of  his  dramas.  Considered  as  plays,  his  works 
are  absurd ;  considered  as  choruses,  they  are  above  all  praise. 
If,  for  instance,  we  examine  the  address  of  Clytemnestra  to 
Agamemnon  ^  on  his  return,  or  the  description  of  the  seven 
Argive  chiefs,^  by  the  principles  of  dramatic  writing,  we  shall 
instantly  condemn  them  as  monstrous.  But  if  we  forget  the 
characters,  and  think  only  of  the  poetry,  we  shall  admit  that  it 
has  never  been  surpassed  in  energy  and  magnificence.  Sophocles 
made  the  Greek  drama  as  dramatic  as  was  consistent  with  its 
original  form.  His  portraits  of  men  have  a  sort  of  similarity ; 
but  it  is  the  similarity  not  of  a  painting,  but  of  a  bas-relief.  It 
suggests  a  resemblance ;  but  it  does  not  produce  an  illusion. 
Euripides  attempted  to  carry  the  reform  further.  But  it  was  a 
task  far  beyond  his  powers,  perhaps  beyond  any  powers.  Instead 
of  correcting  what  was  bad,  he  destroyed  what  was  excellent. 
He  substituted  crutches  for  stilts,  bad  sermons  for  good  odes. 

Milton,  it  is  well  known,  admired  Euripides  highly ;  much 
more  highly  than,  in  our  opinion,  Euripides  deserved.  Indeed, 
the  caresses  which  this  partiahty  leads  our  countryman  to  bestow 
on  "  sad  Electra^s  ^  poet,"  sometimes  remind  us  of  the  beautiful 

1  Pindar,  born  about  520  B.C.,  was  the  greatest  of  Greek  lyric  poets.  He 
wrote  hymns  to  the  gods,  triumphal  odes,  choric  songs,  etc.,  in  an  elevated, 
but  rather  abrupt  and  obscure,  style. 

2  One  of  the  Greek  heroes  of  Homer's  Iliad.  Clytemnestra,  his  wife,  con- 
spiring with  her  lover,  slew  him  on  his  return  from  Troy. 

3  These  were  Polynices,  son  of  (Edipus,  his  father-in-law.  King  Adrastus 
of  Argos,  and  five  other  princes,  with  whom  he  made  war  upon  Thebes  when 
deprived  of  his  share  in  its  government.  The  story  is  told  in  The  Seven 
against  Thebes,  one  of  the  dramas  of  ^schylus. 

4  Electra  is  the  name  of  one  of  the  plays  of  Euripides. 


MILTON.  37 

Queen  of  Fairyland  kissing  the  long  ears  of  Bottom.^  At  all 
events,  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  this  veneration  for  the  Athe- 
nian, whether  just  or  not,  was  injurious  to  the  "  Samson  Agonis- 
tes."  Had  Milton  taken  ^schylus  for  his  model,  he  would  have 
given  himself  up  to  the  lyric  inspiration,  and  poured  out  pro- 
fusely all  the  treasures  of  his  mind,  without  bestowing  a  thought 
on  those  dramatic  proprieties  which  the  nature  of  the  work  ren- 
dered it  impossible  to  preserve.  In  the  attempt  to  reconcile 
things  in  their  own  nature  inconsistent,  he  has  failed,  as  every 
one  else  must  have  failed.  We  cannot  identify  ourselves  with 
the  characters,  as  in  a  good  play.  We  cannot  identify  ourselves 
with  the  poet,  as  in  a  good  ode.  The  conflicting  ingredients, 
like  an  acid  and  an  alkali  mixed.,  neutralize  each  other.  We  are 
by  no  means  insensible  to  the  merits  of  this  celebrated  piece,  to 
the  severe  dignity  of  the  style,  the  graceful  and  pathetic  solem- 
nity of  the  opening  speech,  or  the  wild  and  barbaric  melody 
which  gives  so  striking  an  effect  to  the  choral  passages.  But 
we  think  it,  we  confess,  the  least  successful  effort  of  the  genius 
of  Milton. 

The  "  Comus  "  is  framed  on  the  model  of  the  Italian  masque,^ 
as  the  '^  Samson  "  is  framed  on  the  model  of  the  Greek  tragedy. 
It  is  certainly  the  noblest  performance  of  the  kind  which  exists  in 
any  language.  It  is  as  far  superior  to  the  "  Faithful  Shepherd- 
ess"^ as  the  "  Faithful  Shepherdess"  is  to  the  ''Aminta,"^  or  the 
*'Aminta"  to  the  ''Pastor  Fido."^  It  was  well  for  Milton  that 
he  had  here  no  Euripides  to  mislead  him.     He  understood  and 

1  One  of  the  **  mechanics  "  in  Midsummer-Night's  Dream,  upon  whom 
Oberon,  king  of  the  fairies,  had  caused  an  ass's  head  to  be  set,  and  with 
whom,  for  spite,  he  makes  his  queen,  Titania,  fall  in  love. 

2  A  dramatic  entertainment  in  vogue  in  England  at  the  end  of  the  sixteenth, 
and  beginning  of  the  seventeenth,  century,  acted  by  imaginary  or  allegorical 
personages.  Ben  Jonson  and  Fletcher  have  left  many  beautiful  examples  of 
the  masque. 

3  A  pastoral  drama  by  John  Fletcher  (i 576-1625).  The  Aminta  and  II 
Pastor  Fido  are  poems  of  the  same  character,  written  in  Italian,  the  one  by 
Tasso  (1544-95),  the  other  by  Guarini  (i 537-1612). 


38  MACAU  LAY, 

loved  the  literature  of  modern  Italy.  But  he  did  not  feel  for  it 
the  same  veneration  which  he  entertained  for  the  remains  of 
Athenian  and  Roman  poetry,  consecrated  by  so  many  lofty  and 
endearing  recollections.  The  faults,  moreover,  of  his  Italian 
predecessors  were  of  a  kind  to  which  his  mind  had  a  deadly  an- 
tipathy. He  could  stoop  to  a  plain  style,  sometimes  even  to  a 
bald  style  ;  but  false  briUiancy  was  his  utter  aversion.  His  Muse 
had  no  objection  to  a  russet  attire ;  but  she  turned  with  disgust 
from  the  finery  of  Guarini,  as  tawdry  and  as  paltry  as  the  rags 
of  a  chimney  sweeper  on  May  Day.  Whatever  ornaments  she 
wears  are  of  massive  gold,  not  only  dazzHng  to  the  sight,  but 
capable  of  standing  the  severest  test  of  the  crucible. 

Milton  attended  in  the  "  Comus  "  to  the  distinction  which  he 
afterwards  neglected  in  the  "  Samson."  He  made  his  masque 
what  it  ought  to  be,  essentially  lyrical,  and  dramatic  only  in  sem- 
blance. He  has  not  attempted  a  fruitless  struggle  against  a  de- 
fect inherent  in  the  nature  of  that  species  of  composition ;  and 
he  has  therefore  succeeded,  wherever  success  was  not  impossible. 
The  speeches  must  be  read  as  majestic  sohloquies ;  and  he  who 
so  reads  them  will  be  enraptiured  with  their  eloquence,  their  sub- 
Hmity,  and  their  music.  The  interruptions  of  the  dialogue,  how- 
ever, impose  a  constraint  upon  the  writer,  and  break  the  illusion 
of  the  reader.  The  finest  passages  are  those  which  are  lyric  in 
form  as  well  as  in  spirit.  ''  I  should  much  commend,"  says  the 
excellent  Sir  Henry  Wotton  i  in  a  letter  to  Milton,  "  the  tragical 
part,  if  the  lyrical  did  not  ravish  me  with  a  certain  Dorique  deli- 
cacy in  your  songs  and  odes,  whereunto,  I  must  plainly  confess 
to  you,  I  have  seen  yet  nothing  parallel  in  our  language."  The 
criticism  was  just.  It  is  when  Milton  escapes  from  the  shackles 
of  the  dialogue,  when  he  is  discharged  from  the  labor  of  uniting 
two  incongruous  styles,  when  he  is  at  liberty  to  indulge  his  choral 
raptures  without  reserve,  that  he  rises  even  above  himself.  Then, 
like  his  own  Good  Genius  bursting  from  the  earthly  form  and 

1  An  accomplished  scholar  and  poet  (i  568-1639). 


MILTON,  39 

weeds  of  Thyrsis,i  he  stands  forth  in  celestial  freedom  and 
beauty;   he  seems  to  cry  exultingly, — 

**  Now  my  task  is  smoothly  done, 
I  can  fly,  or  I  can  run,"^ 

to  skim  the  earth,  to  soar  above  the  clouds,  to  bathe  in  the  ely- 
sian  3  dew  of  the  rainbow,  and  to  inhale  the  balmy  smells  of  nard 
and  cassia,  which  the  musky  wings  of  the  zephyr  scatter  through 
the  cedared  alleys  of  the  Hesperides.* 

There  are  several  of  the  minor  poems  of  Milton  on  which  we 
would  wiUingly  make  a  few  remarks.  Still  more  wilhngly  would 
we  enter  into  a  detailed  examination  of  that  admirable  poem, 
the  "  Paradise  Regained,"  which,  strangely  enough,  is  scarcely 
ever  mentioned  except  as  an  instance  of  the  blindness  of  the 
parental  affection  which  men  of  letters  bear  towards  the  offspring 
of  their  intellects.  That  Milton  was  mistaken  in  preferring  this 
work,  excellent  as  it  is,  to  the  ''  Paradise  Lost,"  we  readily  ad- 
mit. But  we  are  sure  that  the  superiority  of  the  '^  Paradise  Lost  " 
to  the  ''  Paradise  Regained  "  is  not  more  decided  than  the  su- 
periority of  the  "  Paradise  Regained  "  to  every  poem  which  has 
since  made  its  appearance.  Our  limits,  however,  prevent  us 
from  discussing  the  point  at  length.  We  hasten  on  to  that  ex- 
traordinary production  which  the  general  suffrage  of  critics  has 
placed  in  the  highest,  class  of  human  compositions. 

The  only  poem  of  modern  times  which  can  be  compared  with 
the  "Paradise  Lost"  is  the  ''Divine  Comedy."^     The  subject 

1  A  character  in  the  Comus,  really  a  spirit,  but  disguised  as  a  shepherd. 

2  Comus,  lines  1012,  1013. 

3  The  Elysian  Fields  were  the  abode  of  the  blessed  spirits  in  the  Hades 
of  the  ancient  Greeks. 

*  In  Greek  mythology,  daughters  of  Hesperus.  The  garden  in  which 
they  guarded  the  golden  apples  presented  to  Juno  on  her  marriage  with 
Jupiter  was  fabled  to  lie  on  the  extreme  verge  of  the  Western  ocean. 

5  The  religious  poem  of  Dante  (i 265-1 321),  the  greatest  of  the  Italian 
poets.  He  was  born  in  Florence,  from  which  city  he  was  banished  by  a 
political  faction,  and  died  in  exile. 


40  MACAU  LAY, 

of  Milton,  in  some  points,  resembled  that  of  Dante ;  but  he  has 
treated  it  in  a  widely  different  manner.  We  cannot,  we  think, 
better  illustrate  our  opinion  respecting  our  own  great  poet,  than 
by  contrasting  him  with  the  father  of  Tuscan  literature. 

The  poetry  of  Milton  differs  from  that  of  Dante  as  the  hiero- 
glyphics ^  of  Egypt  differed  from  the  picture  writing  of  Mexico. 
The  images  which  Dante  employs  speak  for  themselves ;  they 
stand  simply  for  what  they  are.  Those  of  Milton  have  a  signifi- 
cation which  is  often  discernible  only  to  the  initiated.  Their 
value  depends  less  on  what  they  directly  represent  than  on  what 
they  remotely  suggest.  However  strange,  however  grotesque, 
may  be  the  appearance  which  Dante  undertakes  to  describe,  he 
never  shrinks  from  describing  it.  He  gives  us  the  shape,  the 
color,  the  sound,  the  smell,  the  taste ;  he  counts  the  numbers ;  he 
measures  the  size.  His  similes  are  the  illustrations  of  a  traveler. 
Unlike  those  of  other  poets,  and  especially  of  Milton,  they  are 
introduced  in  a  plain,  businesshke  manner;  not  for  the  sake  of 
any  beauty  in  the  objects  from  which  they  are  drawn ;  not  for 
the  sake  of  any  ornament  which  they  may  impart  to  the  poem ; 
but  simply  in  order  to  make  the  meaning  of  the  writer  as  clear 
to  the  reader  as  it  is  to  himself.  The  ruins  of  the  precipice  which 
led  from  the  sixth  to  the  seventh  circle  of  hell  were  like  those  of 
the  rock  which  fell  into  the  Adige  ^  on  the  south  of  Trent.  The 
cataract  of  Phlegethon^  was  like  that  of  Aqua  Cheta  at  the 
monastery  of  St.  Benedict.^     The  place  where  the  heretics  were 

1  Sacred  writings  or  inscriptions  on  the  monuments  in  Egypt,  by  means  of 
which  their  history,  civil  and  religious  calendars,  deeds,  etc.,  were  recorded. 
In  Mexico  pictures  of  animals,  plants,  etc.,  instead  of  signs,  were  used  for 
the  same  purpose. 

2  The  Adige  is  a  river  of  the  Tyrol  and  northern  Italy,  flowing  into  the 
Adriatic,  on  which  the  city  of  Trent  is  situated. 

3  One  of  the  mythical  rivers  of  the  infernal  regions,  whose  waves  were 
torrents  of  fire. 

4  Founder  of  the  Benedictine  Order  of  monks,  and  of  Western  monasti- 
cism,  born  about  A.D.  480.  His  famous  monastery  was  on  Monte  Cassino, 
in  the  vicinity  of  Naples. 


MILTON.  41 

confined  in  burning  tombs  resembled  the  vast  cemetery  of 
Aries.  1 

Now  let  us  compare  with  the  exact  details  of  Dante  the  dim 
intimations  of  Milton.  We  will  cite  a  few  examples.  The  Eng- 
hsh  poet  has  never  thought  of  taking  the  measure  of  Satan.  He 
gives  us  merely  a  vague  idea  of  vast  bulk.  In  one  passage  the 
fiend  lies  stretched  out,  huge  in  length,  floating  many  a  rood, 
equal  in  size  to  the  earthborn  enemies  of  Jove,  or  to  the  sea 
monster  which  the  mariner  mistakes  for  an  island.  When  he 
addresses  himself  to  battle  against  the  guardian  angels,  he  stands 
like  Teneriffe  ^  or  Atlas  :  ^  his  stature  reaches  the  sky.  Contrast 
with  these  descriptions  the  lines  in  which  Dante  has  described 
the  gigantic  specter  of  Nimrod.  "  His  face  seemed  to  me  as 
long  and  as  broad  as  the  ball  of  St.  Peter's  at  Rome ;  and  his 
other  limbs  were  in  proportion ;  so  that  the  bank,  which  con- 
cealed him  from  the  waist  downwards,  nevertheless  showed  so 
much  of  him,  that  three  tall  Germans  would  in  vain  have  at- 
tempted to  reach  to  his  hair."  We  are  sensible  that  we  do 
no  justice  to  the  admirable  style  of  the  Florentine  poet.  But 
Mr.  Gary's  translation  is  not  at  hand ;  and  our  version,  however 
rude,  is  sufficient  to.  illustrate  our  meaning. 

Once  more,  compare  the  lazar  house  ^  in  the  eleventh  book  of 
the  "  Paradise  Lost "  with  the  last  ward  of  Malebolge  in  Dante. 
Milton  avoids  the  loathsome  details,  and  takes  refuge  in  indis- 
tinct but  solemn  and  tremendous  imagery :  Despair  hurrying 
from  couch  to  couch  to  mock  the  wretches  with  his  attendance ; 
Death  shaking  his  dart  over  them,  but,  in  spite  of  supplications, 


1  A  town  of  France,  in  Provence,  in  which  there  is  a  well-preserved  amphi- 
theater, and  other  remains  of  Roman  occupation. 

2  A  volcano  on  an  island  of  the  same  name,  off  the  coast  of  Africa,  12,200 
feet  above  sea  level. 

3  A  great  mountain  system  in  northern  Africa,  its  greatest  altitude  being 
13,000  feet. 

4  Lazar  house  (from  Lazarus),  a  public  hospital  for  the  reception  of  vie. 
tims  of  contagious  or  loathsome  diseases. 


42  MACAULAY. 

delaying  to  strike.  What  says  Dante?  "  There  was  such  a  moan 
there  as  there  would  be  if  all  the  sick  who,  between  July  and 
September,  are  in  the  hospitals  of  Valdichiana,  and  of  the  Tuscan 
swamps,  and  of  Sardinia,  were  in  one  pit  together ;  and  such  a 
stench  was  issuing  forth  as  is  wont  to  issue  from  decayed  limbs." 
We  will  not  take  upon  ourselves  the  invidious  office  of  settling 
precedency  between  two  such  writers.  Each  in  his  own  depart- 
ment is  incomparable ;  and  each,  we  may  remark,  has  wisely,  or 
fortunately,  taken  a  subject  adapted  to  exhibit  his  peculiar  talent 
to  the  greatest  advantage.  The  ''  Divine  Comedy  "  is  a  per- 
sonal narrative.  Dante  is  the  eyewitness  and  earwitness  of  that 
which  he  relates.  He  is  the  very  man  who  has  heard  the  tor- 
mented spirits  crying  out  for  the  second  death  ;  who  has  read  the 
dusky  characters  ^  on  the  portal  within  which  there  is  no  hope ; 
who  has  hidden  his  face  from  the  terrors  of  the  Gorgon  ;2  who 
has  fled  from  the  hooks  and  the  seething  pitch  of  Barbariccia 
and  Draghignazzo.  His  own  hands  have  grasped  the  shaggy 
sides  of  Lucifer.  His  own  feet  have  cHmbed  the  mountain  of 
expiation.  His  own  brow  has  been  marked  by  the  purifying 
angel.  The  reader  would  throw  aside  such  a  tale  in  incredulous 
disgust,  unless  it  were  told  with  the  strongest  air  of  veracity; 
with  a  sobriety  even  in  its  horrors ;  with  the  greatest  precision 
and  multiplicity  in  its  details.  The  narrative  of  Milton  in  this 
respect  differs  from  that  of  Dante,  as  the  adventures  of  Amadis  ^ 
differ  from  those  of  Gulliver.^     The  author  of  ''Amadis  "  would 

1  These  were  the  characters:  "All  hope  abandon,  ye  who  enter  here." 
—  Dante's  Inferno,  Canto  III. 

2  Known  as  Medusa;  according  to  Homer,  a  female  monster,  one  of  three 
sisters,  whose  head  was  covered  with  serpents  instead  of  hair,  and  with  so 
frightful  an  aspect  that  whoever  looked  on  her  was  changed  into  stone. 

3  The  hero  of  one  of  the  early  prose  romances  of  chivalry,  Amadis  of 
Gaul,  written  by  a  Portuguese  gentleman  towards  the  end  of  the  fourteenth 
century. 

4  Lemuel  Gulliver,  whose  fictitious  travels  and  adventures  in  the  strange 
lands  of  Lilliput,  Brobdingnag,  etc.,  were  made  the  vehicle  of  bitter  social 
and  political  satire  by  Dean  Swift  (1667-1745). 


MILTON.  43 

have  made  his  book  ridiculous  if  he  had  introduced  those  minute 
particulars  which  give  such  a  charm  to  the  work  of  Swift ;  the 
nautical  observations,  the  affected  deHcacy  about  names,  the  offi- 
cial documents  transcribed  at  full  length,  and  all  the  unmeaning 
gossip  and  scandal  of  the  court,  springing  out  of  nothing,  and 
tending  to  nothing.  We  are  not  shocked  at  being  told  that  a 
man  who  lived,  nobody  knows  when,  saw  many  very  strange 
sights,  and  we  can  easily  abandon  ourselves  to  the  illusion  of 
the  romance.  But  when  Lemuel  GuUiver,  surgeon,  resident  at 
Rotherhithe,  tells  us  of  pygmies  and  giants,  flying  islands,  and 
philosophizing  horses,  nothing  but  such  circumstantial  touches 
could  produce  for  a  single  moment  a  deception  on  the  imagi- 
nation. 

Of  all  the  poets  who  have  introduced  into  their  works  the 
agency  of  supernatural  beings,  Milton  has  succeeded  best.  Here 
Dante  decidedly  yields  to  him ;  and  as  this  is  a  point  on  which 
many  rash  and  ill-considered  judgments  have  been  pronounced, 
we  feel  inclined  to  dwell  on  it  a  little  longer.  The  most  fatal 
error  which  a  poet  can  possibly  commit  in  the  management  of 
his  machinery  is  that  of  attempting  to  philosophize  too  much. 
Milton  has  been  often  censured  for  ascribing  to  spirits  many 
functions  of  which  spirits  must  be  incapable.  But  these  objec- 
tions, though  sanctioned  by  eminent  names,  originate,  we  venture 
to  say,  in  profound  ignorance  of  the  art  of  poetry. 

What  is  spirit?  What  are  our  own  minds,  the  portion  of  spirit 
with  which  we  are  best  acquainted?  We  observe  certain  phe- 
nomena. We  cannot  explain  them  into  material  causes.  We 
therefore  infer  that  there  exists  something  which  is  not  material. 
But  of  this  something  we  have  no  idea.  We  can  define  it  only 
by  negatives.  We  can  reason  about  it  only  by  symbols.  We  use 
the  word,  but  we  have  no  image  of  the. thing;  and  the  business 
of  poetry  is  with  images,  and  not  with  words.  The  poet  uses 
words  indeed ;  but  they  are  merely  the  instruments  of  his  art, 
not  its  objects.  They  are  the  materials  which  he  is  to  dispose 
tn  such  a  manner  as  to  present  a  picture  to  the  mental  eye.    And 


44  MACAULAY. 

if  they  are  not  so  disposed,  they  are  no  more  entitled  to  be  called 
poetry  than  a  bale  of  canvas  and  a  box  of  colors  to  be  called  a 
painting. 

Logicians  may  reason  about  abstractions.  But  the  great  mass 
of  men  must  have  images.  The  strong  tendency  of  the  multi- 
tude in  all  ages  and  nations  to  idolatry  can  be  explained  on  no 
other  principle.  The  first  inhabitants  of  Greece,  there  is  reason 
to  beheve,  worshiped  one  invisible  Deity.  But  the  necessity 
of  having  something  more  definite  to  adore  produced,  in  a  few 
centuries,  the  innumerable  crowd  of  gods  and  goddesses.  In  like 
manner  the  ancient  Persians  ^  thought  it  impious  to  exhibit  the 
Creator  under  a  human  form.  Yet  even  these  transferred  to  the 
sun  the  worship  which,  in  speculation,  they  considered  due  only 
to  the  Supreme  Mind.  The  history  of  the  Jews  is  the  record  of 
a  continued  struggle  between  pure  Theism,  supported  by  the 
most  terrible  sanctions,  and  the  strangely  fascinating  desire  of 
having  some  visible  and  tangible  object  of  adoration.  Perhaps 
none  of  the  secondary  causes  which  Gibbon  2  has  assigned  for 
the  rapidity  with  which  Christianity  spread  over  the  world,  while 
Judaism  scarcely  ever  acquired  a  proselyte,  operated  more  power- 
fully than  this  feehng.  God,  the  uncreated,  the  incomprehensi- 
ble, the  invisible,  attracted  few  worshipers.  A  philosopher  might 
admire  so  noble  a  conception  ;  but  the  crowd  turned  away  in  dis- 
gust from  words  which  presented  no  image  to  their  minds.  It 
was  before  Deity,  embodied  in  a  human  form,  walking  among 
men,  partaking  of  their  infirmities,  leaning  on  their  bosoms, 
weeping  over  their  graves,  slumbering  in  the  manger,  bleeding  on 
the  cross,  that  the  prejudices  of  the  Synagogue,^  and  the  doubts 

1  The  religion  of  the  ancient  Persians  was  a  dualistic  creed,  called  Zoro- 
asticism,  from  its  founder,  which  asserted  the  existence  of  two  creative  spir- 
its, one  good,  the  other  evil,  but  the  triumph,  ultimately,  of  the  good. 

2  Edward  Gibbon  (1737-94),  author  of  the  History  of  the  Decline  and 
Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire. 

3  A  Greek  word,  meaning  "  a  place  of  assembly."  The  name  was  given 
\o  the  Jewish  place  of  worship. 


MILTON.  45 

of  the  Academy,!  and  the  pride  of  the  Portico,^  and  the  fasces 
of  the  Lictor,^  and  the  swords  of  thirty  legions,  were  humbled  in 
the  dust.  Soon  after  Christianity  had  achieved  its  triumph,  the 
principle  which  had  assisted  it  began  to  corrupt  it.  It^ became 
a  new  paganism.  Patron  saints  assumed  the  offices  of  house- 
hold gods.  St.  George  4  took  the  place  of  Mars.^  St.  Elmo^ 
consoled  the  mariner  for  the  loss  of  Castor  and  Pollux.  The 
Virgin  Mother  and  Ceciha'^  succeeded  to  Venus  ^  and  the 
Muses.^  The  fascination  of  sex  and  loveHness  was  again  joined 
to  that  of  celestial  dignity ;  and  the  homage  of  chivalry  was 
blended  with  that  of  religion.  Reformers  have  often  made  a 
stand  against  these  feehngs ;  but  never  with  more  than  apparent 
and  partial  success.  The  men  who  demolished  the  images  in 
cathedrals  have  not  always  been  able  to  demolish  those  which 
were  enshrined  in  their  minds.  It  would  not  be  difficult  to 
show  that  in  politics  the  same  rule  holds  good.  Doctrines,  we 
are  afraid,  must  generally  be  embodied  before  they  can  excite  a 
strong  public  feehng.  The  multitude  is  more  easily  interested 
for  the  most  unmeaning  badge,  or  the  most  insignificant  name, 
than  for  the  most  important  principle. 

1  A  garden  in  Athens,  so  called  from  Academos,  its  original  owner,  where 
Socrates  discoursed  and  Plato  taught. 

2  The  Portico  was  a  painted  porch,  or  stoa,  in  Athens,  where  Zeno  taught 
his  disciples,  the  Stoics. 

3  A  public  officer  in  ancient  Rome,  in  attendance  upon  the  chief  magis- 
trates to  enforce  their  authority.  He  carried  the  fasces^  a  bundle  of  rods, 
as  emblem  of  his  office. 

4  The  tutelary  saint  of  England,  and  the  especial  patron  of  chivalry. 

5  The  god  of  war. 

6  St.  Elmo's  fire  was  the  name  given  to  the  electric  light  often  seen  about 
the  masts  of  ships  in  stormy  weather.  The  Romans  ascribed  it  to  Castor 
and  Pollux,  twin  divinities  of  their  mythology. 

7  St.  Cecilia,  the  patroness  of  music  in  the  church,  who  suffered  martyr- 
dom about  A.D.  230. 

*  The  goddess  of  love. 

^  The  Muses,  nine  in  number,  were  the  goddesses  of  poetry,  music,  danc- 
ing, painting,  etc. 


46  MAC  AULA  Y. 

From  these  considerations,  we  infer  that  no  poet  who  should 
affect  that  metaphysical  accuracy  for  the  want  of  which  Milton 
has  been  blamed,  would  escape  a  disgraceful  failure.  Still,  how- 
ever, there  was  another  extreme  which,  though  far  less  danger- 
ous, was  also  to  be  avoided.  The  imaginations  of  men  are  in  a 
great  measure  under  the  control  of  their  opinions.  The  most 
exquisite  art  of  poetical  coloring  can  produce  no  illusion  when 
it  is  employed  to  represent  that  which  is  at  once  perceived  to  be 
incongruous  and  absurd.  Milton  wrote  in  an  age  of  philoso- 
phers and  theologians.  It  was  necessary,  therefore,  for  him 
to  abstain  from  giving  such  a  shock  to  their  understandings  as 
might  break  the  charm  which  it  was  his  object  to  throw  over 
their  imaginations.  This  is  the  real  explanation  of  the  indistinct- 
ness and  inconsistency  with  which  he  has  often  been  reproached. 
Dr.  Johnson  acknowledges  that  it  was  absolutely  necessary  that 
the  spirits  should  be  clothed  with  material  forms.  *'  But,"  says 
he,  ''  the  poet  should  have  secured  the  consistency  of  his  system 
by  keeping  immateriality  out  of  sight,  and  seducing  the  reader  to 
drop  it  from  his  thoughts."  This  is  easily  said  ;  but  what  if  Mil- 
ton could  not  seduce  his  readers  to  drop  immateriahty  from  their 
thoughts?  What  if  the  contrary  opinion  had  taken  so  full  a 
possession  of  the  minds  of  men  as  to  leave  no  room  even  for  the 
half  behef  which  poetry  requires?  Such  we  suspect  to  have  been 
the  case.  It  was  impossible  for  the  poet  to  adopt  altogether  the 
material  or  the  immaterial  system.  He  therefore  took  his  stand 
on  the  debatable  ground.  He  left  the  whole  in  ambiguity.  He 
has  doubtless,  by  so  doing,  laid  himself  open  to  the  charge  of 
inconsistency.  But,  though  philosophically  in  the  wrong,  we 
cannot  but  beheve  that  he  was  poetically  in  the  right.  This 
task,  which  almost  any  other  writer  would  have  found  impracti- 
cable, was  easy  to  him.  The  peculiar  art  which  he  possessed  of 
communicating  his  meaning  circuitously  through  a  long  succes- 
sion of  associated  ideas,  and  of  intimating  more  than  he  ex- 
pressed, enabled  him  to  disguise  those  incongruities  which  he 
could  not  avoid. 


MILTON,  47 

Poetry  which  relates  to  the  beings  of  another  world  ought  to 
be  at  once  mysterious  and  picturesque.  That  of  Milton  is  so. 
That  of  Dante  is  picturesque,  indeed,  beyond  any  that  ever  was 
written.  Its  effect  approaches  to  that  produced  by  the  pencil  or 
the  chisel.  But  it  is  picturesque  to  the  exclusion  of  all  mystery. 
This  is  a  fault  on  the  right  side,  a  fault  inseparable  from  the 
plan  of  Dante's  poem,  which,  as  we  have  already  observed,  ren- 
dered the  utmost  accuracy  of  description  necessary.  Still  it  is  a 
fault.  The  supernatural  agents  excite  an  interest ;  but  it  is  not 
the  interest  which  is  proper  to  supernatural  agents.  We  feel  that 
we  could  talk  to  the  ghosts  and  demons,  without  any  emotion  of 
unearthly  awe.  We  could,  hke  Don  Juan,^  ask  them  to  supper, 
and  eat  heartily  in  their  company.  Dante's  angels  are  good  men 
with  wings.  His  devils  are  spiteful,  ugly  executioners.  His 
dead  men  are  merely  living  men  in  strange  situations.  The 
scene  which  passes  between  the  poet  and  Farinata  is  justly  cele- 
brated. Still,  Farinata  in  the  burning  tomb  is  exactly  what  Fari- 
nata would  have  been  at  an  auto  da  feP'  Nothing  can  be  more 
touching  than  the  first  interview  of  Dante  and  Beatrice.^  Yet 
what  is  it,  but  a  lovely  woman  chiding,  with  sweet,  austere  com- 
posure, the  lover  for  whose  affection  she  is  grateful,  but  whose 
vices  she  reprobates?  The  feehngs  which  g\N^  the  passage  its 
charm  would  suit  the  streets  of  Florence  as  well  as  the  summit 
of  the  Mount  of  Purgatory. 

The  spirits  of  Milton  are  unhke  those  of  almost  all  other 
writers.  His  fiends,  in  particular,  are  wonderful  creations. 
They  are  not  metaphysical  abstractions.     They  are  not  wicked 

1  A  character  in  Mozart's  opera,  Don  Giovanni,  who  invites  a  statue  (of 
the  Commendatore)  to  sup  with  him,  and  is  amazed  when  the  statue  keeps 
the  appointment. 

2  **  Act  of  the  faith,"  the  name  given  to  the  ceremony  in  use  in  Spain  and 
Portugal  at  the  execution  of  heretics  by  the  Inquisition. 

3  Beatrice  Portinari,  whom  Dante  first  met  and  loved  in  1274,  when  he 
was  but  nine  years  old,  and  she  about  the  same  age,  and  who,  in  his  Vision, 
was  his  guide  into  Paradise. 


48  MACAULAY, 

men.  They  are  not  ugly  beasts.  They  have  no  horns,  no  tails, 
none  of  the  fee-faw-fum  of  Tasso  ^  and  Klopstock.'^  They  have 
just  enough  in  common  with  human  nature  to  be  intelhgible  to 
human  beings.  Their  characters  are,  like  their  forms,  marked 
by  a  certain  dim  resemblance  to  those  of  men,  but  exaggerated 
to  gigantic  dimensions,  and  veiled  in  mysterious  gloom. 

Perhaps  the  gods  and  demons  of  ^schylus  may  best  bear  a 
comparison  with  the  angels  and  devils  of  Milton.  The  style  of 
the  Athenian  had,  as  we  have  remarked,  something  of  the  Ori- 
ental character ;  and  the  same  peculiarity  may  be  traced  in  his 
mythology.  It  has  nothing  of  the  amenity  and  elegance  which 
we  generally  find  in  the  superstitions  of  Greece.  All  is  rugged, 
barbaric,  and  colossal.  The  legends  of  ^schylus  seem  to  har- 
monize less  with  the  fragrant  groves  and  graceful  porticos  in 
which  his  countrymen  paid  their  vows  to  the  God  of  Light  ^  and 
Goddess  of  Desire,^  than  with  those  huge  and  grotesque  laby- 
rinths of  eternal  granite  in  which  Egypt  enshrined  her  mystic 
Osiris,^  or  in  which  Hindostan  still  bows  down  to  her  seven- 
headed  idols.  His  favorite  gods  are  those  of  the  elder  genera- 
tion, the  sons  of  heaven  and  earth,  compared  with  whom  Jupiter 
himself  was  a  stripling  and  an  upstart, —  the  gigantic  Titans,^  and 
the  inexorable  Furies."^  Foremost  among  his  creations  of  this 
class  stands  Prometheus,^  half  fiend,  half  redeemer,  the  friend  of 

1  An  Italian  poet  (1544-95),  who  wrote  romantic  and  pastoral  poems  and 
dramas,  but  is  chiefly  known  by  his  great  epic,  Jerusalem  Delivered. 

2  A  German  poet  (i  724-1803),  who  wrote  an  epic.  The  Messiah,  and 
dramatic  poems  on  subjects  taken  from  the  Old  Testament. 

3  Apollo.  4  Venus. 

5  The  greatest  of  the  Egyptian  gods,  who  judged  the  dead  in  the  nether 
world. 

6  In  classical  mythology,  a  race  of  giants  who  warred  against  Jupiter. 

7  Deities,  avengers  of  crime,  who  drove  guilty  souls  into  the  infernal 
world. 

8  Prometheus  stole  fire  from  heaven  for  the  use  and  benefit  of  man,  and 
was  chained  to  the  Caucasus  Mountains  by  Jupiter,  where  an  eagle  fed  upon 
his  liver. 


MILTON,  49 

man,  the  sullen  and  implacable  enemy  of  heaven.  Prometheus 
bears  undoubtedly  a  considerable  resemblance  to  the  Satan  of 
Milton.  In  both  we  find  the  same  impatience  of  control,  the 
same  ferocity,  the  same  unconquerable  pride.  In  both  charac- 
ters, also,  are  mingled,  though  in  very  different  proportions,  some 
kind  and  generous  feelings.  Prometheus,  however,  is  hardly 
superhuman  enough.  He  talks  too  much  of  his  chains  and  his 
uneasy  posture ;  he  is  rather  too  much  depressed  and  agitated. 
His  resolution  seems  to  depend  on  the  knowledge  which  he 
possesses  that  he  holds  the  fate  of  his  torturer  in  his  hands,  and 
that  the  hour  of  his  release  will  surely  come.  But  Satan  is  a 
creature  of  another  sphere.  The  might  of  his  intellectual  nature 
is  victorious  over  the  extremity  of  pain.  Amidst  agonies  which 
cannot  be  conceived  without  horror,  he  deliberates,  resolves,  and 
even  exults.  Against  the  sword  of  Michael,  against  the  thunder 
of  Jehovah,  against  the  flaming  lake,  and  the  marl  burning  with 
solid  fire,  against  the  prospect  of  an  eternity  of  unintermitted 
misery,  his  spirit  bears  up  unbroken,  resting  on  its  own  innate 
energies,  requiring  no  support  from  anything  external,  nor  even 
from  hope  itself. 

To  return  for  a  moment  to  the  parallel  which  we  have  been 
attempting  to  draw  between  Milton  and  Dante,  we  would  add 
that  the  poetry  of  these  great  men  has  in  a  considerable  degree 
taken  its  character  from  their  moral  qualities.  They  are  not 
egotists.  They  rarely  obtrude  their  idiosyncrasies  on  their 
readers.  They  have  nothing  in  common  with  those  modern 
beggars  for  fame,  who  extort  a  pittance  from  the  compassion  of 
the  inexperienced  by  exposing  the  nakedness  and  sores  of  their 
minds.  Yet  it  would  be  difficult  to  name  two  writers  whose 
works  have  been  more  completely,  though  undesignedly,  colored 
by  their  personal  feelings. 

The  character  of  Milton  was  peculiarly  distinguished  by  lofti- 
ness of  spirit ;  that  of  Dante  by  intensity  of  feehng.  In  every 
line  of  the  '^  Divine  Comedy  "  we  discern  the  asperity  which  is 
produced  by  pride  struggling  with  misery.  There  is  perhaps 
4 


50  MACAULAV, 

no  work  in  the  world  so  deeply  and  uniformly  sorrowful.  The 
melancholy  of  Dante  was  no  fantastic  caprice.  It  was  not,  as 
far  as  at  this  distance  of  time  can  be  judged,  the  effect  of  ex- 
ternal circumstances.  It  was  from  within.  Neither  love  nor 
glory,  neither  the  conflicts  of  earth  nor  the  hope  of  heaven, 
could  dispel  it.  It  turned  every  consolation  and  every  pleasure 
into  its  own  nature.  It  resembled  that  noxious  Sardinian  soil  of 
which  the  intense  bitterness  is  said  to  have  been  perceptible  even 
in  its  honey.  His  mind  was,  in  the  noble  language  of  the  He- 
brew poet,  ''a  land  of  darkness,  as  darkness  itself,  and  where 
the  light  was  as  darkness."  The  gloom  of  his  character  discolors 
all  the  passions  of  men,  and  all  the  face  of  nature,  and  tinges 
with  its  own  livid  hue  the  flowers  of  Paradise  and  the  glories 
of  the  eternal  throne.  All  the  portraits  of  him  are  singularly 
characteristic.  No  person  can  look  on  the  features,  noble  even 
to  ruggedness,  the  dark  furrows  of  the  cheek,  the  haggard  and 
woeful  stare  of  the  eye,  the  sullen  and  contemptuous  curve  of 
the  lip,  and  doubt  that  they  belong  to  a  man  too  proud  and  too 
sensitive  to  be  happy. 

Milton  was,  hke  Dante,  a  statesman  and  a  lover ;  and,  like 
Dante,  he  had  been  unfortunate  in  ambition  and  in  love.  He 
had  survived  his  health  and  his  sight,  the  comforts  of  his  home, 
and  the  prosperity  of  his  party.  Of  the  great  men  by  whom  he 
had  been  distinguished  at  his  entrance  into  life,  some  had  been 
taken  away  from  the  evil  to  come ;  some  had  carried  into  for- 
eign climates  their  unconquerable  hatred  of  oppression ;  some 
were  pining  in  dungeons  ;  and  some  had  poured  forth  their  blood 
on  scaffolds.  Venal  and  licentious  scribblers,  with  just  sufficient 
talent  to  clothe  the  thoughts  of  a  pander  in  the  style  of  a  bell- 
man, were  now  the  favorite  writers  of  the  sovereign  ^  and  of  the 
public.  It  was  a  loathsome  herd,  which  could  be  compared  to 
nothing  so  fitly  as  to  the  rabble  of  **  Comus,"  grotesque  mon- 
sters, half  bestial,  half  human,  dropping  with  wine,  bloated  with 
gluttony,  and  reeling  in  obscene  dances.     Amidst  these  that  fair 

1  Charles  II. 


MILTON,  51 

Muse  was  placed,  like  the  chaste  lady  of  the  masque,  lofty,  spot- 
less, and  serene,  to  be  chattered  at,  and  pointed  at,  and  grinned 
at,  by  the  whole  rout  of  satyrs  and  goblins.  If  ever  despond- 
ency and  asperity  could  be  excused  in  any  man,  they  might  have 
been  excused  in  Milton.  But  the  strength  of  his  mind  overcame 
every  calamity.  Neither  blindness,  nor  gout,  nor  age,  nor  pen- 
ury, nor  domestic  afflictions,  nor  pohtical  disappointments,  nor 
abuse,  nor  proscription,  nor  neglect,  had  power  to  disturb  his 
sedate  and  majestic  patience.  His  spirits  do  not  seem  to  have 
been  high,  but  they  were  singularly  equable.  His  temper  was 
serious,  perhaps  stern ;  but  it  was  a  temper  which  no  sufferings 
could  render  sullen  or  fretful.  Such  as  it  was  when,  on  the  eve 
of  great  events,  he  returned  from  his  travels,  in  the  prime  of 
health  and  manly  beauty,  loaded  with  literary  distinctions,  and 
glowing  with  patriotic  hopes;  such  it  continued  to  be  when, 
after  having  experienced  every  calamity  which  is  incident  to  our 
nature,  old,  poor,  sightless,  and  disgraced,  he  retired  to  his  hovel 
to  die. 

Hence  it  was,  that,  though  he  wrote  the  '*  Paradise  Lost "  at 
a  time  of  life  when  images  of  beauty  and  tenderness  are  in  gen- 
eral beginning  to  fade,  even  from  those  minds  in  which  they  have 
not  been  effaced  by  anxiety  and  disappointment,  he  adorned  it 
with  all  that  is  most  lovely  and  delightful  in  the  physical  and  in 
the  moral  world.  Neither  Theocritus  ^  nor  Ariosto  ^  had  a  finer 
or  a  more  healthful  sense  of  the  pleasantness  of  external  objects, 
or  loved  better  to  luxuriate  amidst  sunbeams  and  flowers,  the 
songs  of  nightingales,  the  juice  of  summer  fruits,  and  the  cool- 
ness of  shady  fountains.  His  conception  of  love  unites  all  the 
voluptuousness  of  the  Oriental  harem,  and  all  the  gallantry  of 
the  chivalric  tournament,  with  all  the  pure  and  quiet  affection  of 
an  Enghsh  fireside.     His  poetry  reminds  us  of  the  miracles  of 

1  The  greatest  of  the  Greek  idyllic  and  pastoral  poets,  a  Syracusan  by 
birth,  who  flourished  about  the  end  of  the  third  century  B.C. 

2  Ludovico  Ariosto  (1474-1533),  an  Italian  poet,  author  of  many  lyrical 
poems,  and  of  Orlando  Furioso,  a  fantastic  story  of  chivalry. 


52  MACAULAY. 

Alpine  scenery.  Nooks  and  dells,  beautiful  as  fairyland,  are 
embosomed  in  its  most  rugged  and  gigantic  elevations.  The 
roses  and  myrtles  bloom  unchilled  on  the  verge  of  the  avalanche. 

Traces,  indeed,  of  the  peculiar  character  of  Milton  may  be 
found  in  all  his  works ;  but  it  is  most  strongly  displayed  in  the 
Sonnets.  Those  remarkable  poems  have  been  undervalued  by 
critics  who  have  not  understood  their  nature.  They  have  no 
epigrammatic  point.  There  is  none  of  the  ingenuity  of  Filicaja  i 
in  the  thought,  none  of  the  hard  and  brilliant  enamel  of  Petrarch 
in  the  style.  They  are  simple  but  majestic  records  of  the  feel- 
ings of  the  poet ;  as  little  tricked  out  for  the  public  eye  as  his 
diary  would  have  been.  A  victory,  an  expected  attack  upon  the 
city,  a  momentary  fit  of  depression  or  exultation,  a  jest  thrown 
out  against  one  of  his  books,  a  dream  which  for  a  short  time 
restored  to  him  that  beautiful  face  over  which  the  grave  had 
closed  forever,  led  him  to  musings  which,  without  effort,  shaped 
themselves  into  verse.  The  unity  of  sentiment  and  severity  of 
style  which  characterize  these  little  pieces  remind  us  of  the  Greek 
Anthology,^  or  perhaps  still  more  of  the  Collects  ^  of  the  Enghsh 
Liturgy.  The  noble  poem  on  the  Massacres  of  Piedmont  is 
strictly  a  collect  in  verse. 

The  Sonnets  are  more  or  less  striking,  according  as  the  occa- 
sions which  gave  birth  to  them  are  more  or  less  interesting.  But 
they  are,  almost  without  exception,  dignified  by  a  sobriety  and 
greatness  of  mind  to  which  we  know  not  where  to  look  for  a 
parallel.  It  would,  indeed,  be  scarcely  safe  to  draw  any  decided 
inferences  as  to  the  character  of  a  writer  from  passages  directly 
egotistical.     But  the  qualities  which  we  have  ascribed  to  Milton, 

1  Filicaja  (1642-1707),  an  Italian  lyric  poet,  who  celebrated,  in  a  series 
of  odes,  the  triumph  of  the  Christians  in  the  defeat  of  the  Turks  at  Vienna, 
in  1683. 

2  A  collection  of  several  thousand  short  poems,  among  the  most  valuable 
remains  of  ancient  Greek  literature. 

3  A  collect  is  a  form  of  prayer  used  in  the  Liturgies,  or  orders  of  wor- 
ship, in  the  Western  churches. 


MILTON,  S3 

though  perhaps  most  strongly  marked  in  those  parts  of  his  works 
which  treat  of  his  personal  feelings,  are  distinguishable  in  every 
page,  and  impart  to  all  his  writings,  prose  and  poetry,  English, 
Latin,  and  Itahan,  a  strong  family  likeness. 

His  public  conduct  was  such  as  was  to  be  expected  from  a 
man  of  a  spirit  so  high  and  of  an  intellect  so  powerful.  He 
lived  at  one  of  the  most  memorable  eras  in  the  history  of  man- 
kind ;  at  the  very  crisis  of  the  great  conflict  between  Oromasdes 
and  Arimanes,!  hberty  and  despotism,  reason  and  prejudice. 
That  great  battle  was  fought  for  no  single  generation,  for  no 
single  land.  The  destinies  of  the  human  race  were  staked  on 
the  same  cast  with  the  freedom  of  the  English  people.  Then 
were  first  proclaimed  those  mighty  principles  which  have  since 
worked  their  way  into  the  depths  of  the  American  forests,  which 
have  roused  Greece  from  the  slavery  and  degradation  of  two 
thousand  years,  and  which,  from  one  end  of  Europe  to  the  other, 
have  kindled  an  unquenchable  fire  in  the  hearts  of  the  oppressed, 
and  loosed  the  knees  of  the  oppressors  with  an  unwonted  fear. 

Of  those  principles,  then  strugghng  for  their  infant  existence, 
Milton  was  the  most  devoted  and  eloquent  hterary  champion. 
We  need  not  say  how  much  we  admire  his  public  conduct.  But 
we  cannot  disguise  from  ourselves  that  a  large  portion  of  his 
countrymen  still  think  it  unjustifiable.  The  civil  war,  indeed, 
has  been  more  discussed,  and  is  less  understood,  than  any  event 
in  English  history.  The  friends  of  hberty  labored  under  the 
disadvantage  of  which  the  lion  in  the  fable  ^  complained  so 
bitterly.     Though  they  were  the  conquerors,  their  enemies  were 

1  Oromasdes  and  Arimanes,  the  gbod  and  evil  geniuses  of  the  ancient 
Persian  religion. 

2  This  fable  is  to  the  effect  that  a  man  and  a  lion,  traveling  through  a  for- 
est, and  boasting  of  their  respective  strength  and  prowess,  came  to  a  statue 
of  a  man  strangling  a  lion,  on  which  the  man  remarked,  "  See  how  strong 
we  are,  and  how  we  can  prevail  over  you."  To  this  the  king  of  beasts  re- 
plied, "  Yes,  but  if  the  statue  had  been  made  by  one  of  us,  the  man  would 
have  been  under  the  lion's  paw." 


MACAULAY. 

the  painters.  As  a  body,  the  Roundheads  ^  had  done  their  ut- 
most to  decry  and  ruin  hterature ;  and  hterature  was  even  with 
them,  as,  in  the  long  run,  it  always  is  with  its  enemies.  The 
best  book  on  their  side  of  the  question  is  the  charming  narrative 
of  Mrs.  Hutchinson. 2  May's  *'  History  of  the  Parliament "  ^  is 
good  ;  but  it  breaks  off  at  the  most  interesting  crisis  of  the  strug- 
gle. The  performance  of  Ludlow  ^  is  fooHsh  and  violent ;  and 
most  of  the  later  writers  who  have  espoused  the  same  cause, 
Oldmixon,^  for  instance,  and  Catherine  Macaulay,^  have,  to  say 
the  least,  been  more  distinguished  by  zeal  than  either  by  candor 
or  by  skill.  On  the  other  side  are  the  most  authoritative  and  the 
most  popular  historical  works  in  our  language,  —  that  of  Claren- 
don^ and  that  of  Hume.^  The  former  is  not  only  ably  written  and 
full  of  valuable  information,  but  has  also  an  air  of  dignity  and 
sincerity  which  makes  even  the  prejudices  and  errors  with  which 
it  abounds  respectable.  Hume,  from  whose  fascinating  narrative 
the  great  mass  of  the  reading  public  are  still  contented  to  take 
their  opinions,  hated  religion  so  much  that  he  hated  liberty  for 
having  been  allied  with  religion,  and  has  pleaded  the  cause  of 
tyranny  with  the  dexterity  of  an  advocate,  while  affecting  the 
impartiality  of  a  judge. 

The  public  conduct  of  Milton  must  be  approved  or  con- 
demned, according  as  the  resistance  of  the  people  to  Charles  I. 

1  A  name  given  in  derision  by  the  Cavalier  or  Royalist  party  in  the  civil 
war  to  the  Puritans  and  Independents. 

2  Mrs.  Hutchinson  (1620-59)  wrote  a  memoir  of  her  husband,  Colonel 
Hutchinson,  who  was  in  the  Parliamentary  army  in  the  civil  war. 

3  May's  work,  printed  in  1647,  treats  of  only  a  part  of  the  civil  war.  He 
was  secretary  to  the  Parliament. 

4  General  Ludlow  wrote  memoirs  of  Cromwell;  John  Oldmixon  (1673- 
1742),  a  History  of  England  (1730-39);  and  Mrs.  Macaulay  (1733-91),  a 
history  from  the  reign  of  James  I.  to  the  accession  of  the  House  of  Hanover. 

5  Earl  of  Clarendon  (1608-74),  a  Royalist  statesman  of  the  time  of 
Charles  I.  and  Charles  II.,  who  wrote  a  History  of  the  Civil  Wars. 

6  David  Hume  (171 1-76),  a  famous  philosopher,  and  author  of  a  History 
of  England. 


MILTON.  55 

shall  appear  to  be  justifiable  or  criminal.  We  shall  therefore 
make  no  apology  for  dedicating  a  few  pages  to  the  discussion 
of  that  interesting  and  most  important  question.  We  shall  not 
argue  it  on  general  grounds.  We  shall  not  recur  to  those  pri- 
mary principles  from  which  the  claim  of  any  government  to  the 
obedience  of  its  subjects  is  to  be  deduced.  We  are  entitled  to 
that  vantage  ground ;  but  we  will  relinquish  it.  We  are,  on  this 
point,  so  confident  of  superiority,  that  we  are  not  unwilling  to 
imitate  the  ostentatious  generosity  of  those  ancient  knights  who 
vowed  to  joust  without  helmet  or  shield  against  all  enemies,  and 
to  give  their  antagonists  the  advantage  of  sun  and  wind.  We 
will  take  the  naked  constitutional  question.  We  confidently 
affirm,  that  every  reason  which  can  be  urged  in  favor  of  the 
Revolution  of  1688  ^  may  be  urged  with  at  least  equal  force  in 
favor  of  what  is  called  the  Great  Rebellion. 

In  one  respect  only,  we  think,  can  the  warmest  admirers  of 
Charles  venture  to  say  that  he  was  a  better  sovereign  than  his 
son.  He  was  not,  in  name  and  profession,  a  Papist ;  we  say  in 
name  and  profession,  because  both  Charles  himself  and  his  crea- 
ture Laud,2  while  they  abjured  the  innocent  badges  of  Popery, 
retained  all  its  worst  vices,  —  a  complete  subjection  of  reason 
to  authority,  a  weak  preference  of  form  to  substance,  a  childish 
passion  for  mummeries,  an  idolatrous  veneration  for  the  priestly 
character,  and,  above  all,  a  merciless  intolerance.  This,  how- 
ever, we  waive.  We  will  concede  that  Charles  was  a  good 
Protestant ;  but  we  say  that  his  Protestantism  does  not  make  the 
slightest  distinction  between  his  case  and  that  of  James. 

The  principles  of  the  Revolution  have  often  been  grossly  mis- 
represented, and  never  more  than  in  the  course  of  the  present 
year.     There  is  a  certain  class  of  men  who,  while  they  profess  to 

1  The  revolution  in  which  James  II.,  brother  of  Charles  II.,  was  driven 
from  the  throne  by  William,  Prince  of  Orange,  who  succeeded  him. 

^  William  Laud,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  who  supported  Charles  I.  in 
many  of  his  oppressive  measures  in  church  matters.  He  was  beheaded  on 
Tower  Hill  in  1645. 


56  MACAULAY, 

hold  in  reverence  the  great  names  and  great  actions  of  former 
times,  never  look  at  them  for  any  other  purpose  than  in  order  to 
find  in  them  some  excuse  for  existing  abuses.  In  every  vener- 
able precedent  they  pass  by  what  is  essential,  and  take  only  what 
is  accidental :  they  keep  out  of  sight  what  is  beneficial,  and  hold 
up  to  public  imitation  all  that  is  defective.  If,  in  any  part  of 
any  great  example,  there  be  anything  unsound,  these  flesh  flies 
detect  it  with  an  unerring  instinct,  and  dart  upon  it  with  a  rave- 
nous dehght.  If  some  good  end  has  been  attained  in  spite  of 
them,  they  feel,  with  their  prototype,  that  their 

'^  Labor  must  be  to  pervert  that  end, 
And  out  of  good  still  to  find  means  of  evil."^ 

To  the  blessings  which  England  has  derived  from  the  Revolu- 
tion these  people  are  utterly  insensible.  The  expulsion  of  a  tyrant, 
the  solemn  recognition  of  popular  rights,  —  liberty,  security,  tol- 
eration,—  all  go  for  nothing  with  them.  One  sect^  there  was, 
which,  from  unfortunate  temporary  causes,  it  was  thought  neces- 
sary to  keep  under  close  restraint.  One  part  of  the  empire^ 
there  was,  so  unhappily  circumstanced  that  at  that  time  its  misery 
was  necessary  to  our  happiness,  and  its  slavery  to  our  freedom. 
These  are  the  parts  of  the  Revolution  which  the  pohticians  of 
whom  we  speak  love  to  contemplate,  and  which  seem  to  them 
not  indeed  to  vindicate,  but  in  some  degree  to  palliate,  the  good 
which  it  has  produced.  Talk  to  them  of  Naples,  of  Spain,  or 
of  South  America.  They  stand  forth  zealots  for  the  doctrine  of 
Divine  Right,'^  which  has  now  come  back  to  us,  like  a  thief  from 
transportation,  under  the  alias  of  Legitimacy.  But  mention  the 
miseries  of  Ireland.     Then  William  ^  is  a  hero.     Then  Somers 

1  Paradise  Lost,  Book  I.,  lines  164,  165. 

2  The  Roman  Catholics. 

3  "  One  part  of  the  empire,"  i.e.,  Ireland. 

4  See  Introduction,  p.  11. 

5  William  III.,  Prince  of  Orange,  and  King  of  England  after  James  IL 
He  was  the  son  of  Mary,  daughter  of  Charles  I. 


MILTON.  57 

and  Shrewsbury  1  are  great  men.  Then  the  Revolution  is  a 
glorious  era!  The  very  same  persons  who,  in  this  country,  never 
omit  an  opportunity  of  reviving  every  wretched  Jacobite  ^  slan- 
der respecting  the  Whigs  of  that  period,  have  no  sooner  crossed 
St.  George's  Channel  ^  than  they  begin  to  fill  their  bumpers  to 
the  glorious  and  immortal  memory.  They  may  truly  boast  that 
they  look  not  at  men,  but  at  measures.  So  that  evil  be  done, 
they  care  not  who  does  it ;  the  arbitrary  Charles  or  the  liberal 
William,  Ferdinand  the  CathoHc  ^  or  Frederick  the  Protestant.^ 
On  such  occasions  their  deadliest  opponents  may  reckon  upon 
their  candid  construction.  The  bold  assertions  of  these  people 
have  of  late  impressed  a  large  portion  of  the  public  with  an 
opinion  that  James  II.  was  expelled  simply  because  he  was  a 
Catholic,  and  that  the  Revolution  was  essentially  a  Protestant 
revolution. 

But  this  certainly  was  not  the  case,  nor  can  any  person  who 
has  acquired  more  knowledge  of  the  history  of  those  times  than 
is  to  be  found  in  Goldsmith's  ^  "  Abridgment  '*  believe  that,  if 
James  had  held  his  own  rehgious  opinions  without  wishing  to 
make  proselytes,  or  if,  wishing  even  to  make  proselytes,  he  had 
contented  himself  with  exerting  only  his  constitutional  influence 
for  that  purpose,  the  Prince  of  Orange  would  ever  have  been 
invited  over.  Our  ancestors,  we  suppose,  knew  their  own  mean- 
ing ;  and,  if  we  may  believe  them,  their  hostility  was  primarily 
not  to  Popery,  but  to  tyranny.     They  did  not  drive  out  a  tyrant 

1  Somers  and  Shrewsbury  were  Lord  Chancellor  and  Secretary  of  State, 
respectively,  in  the  reign  of  William  III. 

2  A  term  applied  to  the  adherents  of  James  II.  and  his  family. 

3  Separating  England  and  Ireland. 

*  King  of  Spain  (1452-15 16),  who,  with  his  wife  Isabella,  established  the 
Inquisition. 

5  Frederick  V.  (i  596-1632),  Elector  Palatine,  one  of  the  Protestant  princes 
of  Germany,  and  son-in-law  of  King  James  I.  of  England. 

6  Oliver  Goldsmith  (1728-74),  contemporary  with  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson, 
wrote  an  abridged  History  of  England.  He  is  best  known  for  his  poems.  The 
Traveler  and  The  Deserted  Village,  and  his  novel,  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield. 


58  MACAULAY. 

because  he  was  a  Catholic ;  but  they  excluded  Catholics  from 
the  Crown  because  they  thought  them  hkely  to  be  tyrants.  The 
ground  on  which  they,  in  their  famous  resolution,  declared  the 
throne  vacant,  was  this,  "  that  James  had  broken  the  fundamen- 
tal laws  of  the  kingdom."  Every  man,  therefore,  who  approves 
of  the  Revolution  of  1688  must  hold  that  the  breach  of  funda- 
mental laws  on  the  part  of  the  sovereign  justifies  resistance.  The 
question,  then,  is  this :  Had  Charles  I.  broken  the  fundamental 
laws  of  England? 

No  person  can  answer  in  the  negative  unless  he  refuses  credit, 
not  merely  to  all  the  accusations  brought  against  Charles  by  his 
opponents,  but  to  the  narratives  of  the  warmest  Royalists,  and 
to  the  confessions  of  the  king  himself.  If  there  be  any  truth 
in  any  historian  of  any  party  who  has  related  the  events  of  that 
reign,  the  conduct  of  Charles,  from  his  accession  to  the  meeting 
of  the  Long  Parhament,^  had  been  a  continued  course  of  oppres- 
sion and  treachery.  Let  those  who  applaud  the  Revolution  and 
condemn  the  Rebellion  mention  one  act  of  James  II.  to  which  a 
parallel  is  not  to  be  found  in  the  history  of  his  father.  Let  them 
lay  their  fingers  on  a  single  article  in  the  Declaration  of  Right,^ 
presented  by  the  two  Houses  to  William  and  Mary,  which 
Charles  is  not  acknowledged  to  have  violated.  He  had,  accord- 
ing to  the  testimony  of  his  own  friends,  usurped  the  functions  of 
the  legislature,  raised  taxes  without  the  consent  of  Parliament, 
and  quartered  troops  on  the  people  in  the  most  illegal  and  vexa- 
tious manner.  Not  a  single  session  of  Parliament  had  passed 
without  some  unconstitutional  attack  on  the  freedom  of  debate. 
The  right  of  petition  was  grossly  violated.    Arbitrary  judgments, 

1  The  Long  Parliament  was  convened  in  1640,  and  so  called  from  its  con- 
tinued existence,  except  for  its  suspension  by  Cromwell  in  1653  (when  it  was 
known  as  the  **  Rump  "),  until  the  Restoration  in  1660. 

An  instrument  in  which  the  crimes  and  errors  of  the  government  under 
James  II.  were  recited,  with  a  statement  of  the  rights  and  privileges  of  Par- 
liament and  the  people.  On  solemn  assurance  that  these  would  be  preserved, 
William  and  Mary  were  constituted  joint  rulers  of  Great  Britain. 


MILTON,  59 

exorbitant  fines,  and  unwarranted  imprisonments  were  grievances 
of  daily  occurrence.  If  these  things  do  not  justify  resistance, 
the  Revolution  was  treason ;  if  they  do,  the  great  RebeUion  was 
laudable. 

But,  it  is  said,  why  not  adopt  milder  measures  ?  Why,  after 
the  king  had  consented  to  so  many  reforms  and  renounced  so 
many  oppressive  prerogatives,  did  the  Parliament  continue  to 
rise  in  their  demands  at  the  risk  of  provoking  a  civil  war  ?  The 
ship  money  ^  had  been  given  up,  the  Star  Chamber  ^  had  been 
abolished,  provision  had  been  made  for  the  frequent  convocation 
and  secure  deliberation  of  Parliaments.  Why  not  pursue  an  end 
confessedly  good  by  peaceable  and  regular  means?  We  recur 
again  to  the  analogy  of  the  Revolution.  Why  was  James  driven 
from  the  throne?  Why  was  he  not  retained  upon  conditions? 
He,  too,  had  offered  to  call  a  free  Parliament,  and  to  submit  to 
its  decision  all  the  matters  in  dispute.  Yet  we  are  in  the  habit 
of  praising  our  forefathers,  who  preferred  a  revolution,  a  disputed 
succession,  a  dynasty  of  strangers,  twenty  years  of  foreign  and 
intestine  war,  a  standing  army,  and  a  national  debt,  to  the  rule, 
however  restricted,  of  a  tried  and  proved  tyrant.  The  Long 
Parliament  acted  on  the  same  principle,  and  is  efititkd  to  the 
same  praise.  They  could  not  trust  the  king.  He  had,  no 
doubt,  passed  salutary  laws ;  but  what  assurance  was  there  that 
he  would  not  break  them?  He  had  renounced  oppressive  pre- 
rogatives ;  but  where  was  the  security  that  he  would  not  resume 
them?  The  nation  had  to  deal  with  a  man  whom  no  tie  could 
bind  ;  a  man  who  made  and  broke  promises  with  equal  facihty  ;  a 
man  whose  honor  had  been  a  hundred  times  pawned,  and  never 
redeemed. 

Here,  indeed,  the  Long  Parliament  stands  on  still  stronger 
ground  than  the  Convention  of  1688.  No  action  of  James  can 
be  compared  to  the  conduct  of  Charles  with  respect  to  the  Peti- 
tion of  Right.i     The  Lords  and  Commons  present  him  with  a 

1  See  Introduction,  p.  12. 


6o  MACAULAY. 

bill  in  whick  the  constitutional  limits  of  his  power  are  marked 
out.  He  hesitates ;  he  evades ;  at  last  he  bargains  to  give  his 
assent  for  five  subsidies.  The  bill  receives  his  solemn  assent ; 
the  subsidies  are  voted ;  but  no  sooner  is  the  tyrant  relieved  than 
he  returns  at  once  to  all  the  arbitrary  measures  which  he  had 
bound  himself  to  abandon,  and  violates  all  the  clauses  of  the 
very  act  which  he  had  been  paid  to  pass. 

For  more  than  ten  years  the  people  had  seen  the  rights  which 
were  theirs  by  a  double  claim, — by  immemorial  inheritance  and 
by  recent  purchase, —  infringed  by  the  perfidious  king  who  had 
recognized  them.  At  length  circumstances  compelled  Charles 
to  summon  another  Parliament.  Another  chance  was  given  to 
our  fathers:  were  they  to  throw  it  away  as  they  had  thrown 
away  the  former  ?  Were  they  again  to  be  cozened  by  le  Roi  le 
vent?  1  Were  they  again  to  advance  their  money  on  pledges 
which  had  been  forfeited  over  and  over  again?  Were  they  to 
lay  a  second  Petition  of  Right  at  the  foot  of  the  throne,  to  grant 
another  lavish  aid  in  exchange  for  another  unmeaning  ceremony, 
and  then  to  take  their  departure,  till,  after  ten  years  more  of 
fraud  and  oppression,  their  prince  should  again  require  a  supply, 
and  again  repay  it  with  a  perjury?  They  were  compelled  to 
choose  whether  they  would  trust  a  tyrant  or  conquer  him.  We 
think  that  they  chose  wisely  and  nobly. 

The  advocates  of  Charles,  hke  the  advocates  of  other  male- 
factors against  whom  overwhelming  evidence  is  produced,  gen- 
erally dechne  all  controversy  about  the  facts,  and  content  them- 
selves with  caUing  testimony  to  character.  He  had  so  many 
private  virtues!  And  had  James  II.  no  private  virtues?  Was 
Oliver  Cromwell,  his  bitterest  enemies  themselves  being  judges, 
destitute  of  private  virtues?  And  what,  after  all,  are  the  virtues 
ascribed  to  Charles?  A  religious  zeal,  not  more  sincere  than 
that  of  his  son,  and  fully  as  weak  and  narrow-minded,  and  a  few 

1  "The  king  wishes  it,"  a  phrase  in  which  the  royal  assent  to  bills  in 
Parliament  is  conveyed.  It  dates  from  the  time  when  French  was  the  lan- 
guage of  the  court. 


MILTON,  6 1 

of  the  ordinary  household  decencies  which  half  the  tombstones  in 
England  claim  for  those  who  lie  beneath  them.  A  good  father! 
A  good  husband!  Ample  apologies  indeed  for  fifteen  years  of 
persecution,  tyranny,  and  falsehood! 

We  charge  him  with  having  broken  his  coronation  oath ;  and 
we  are  told  that  he  kept  his  marriage  vow!  We  accuse  him 
of  having  given  up  his  people  to  the  merciless  inflictions  of  the 
most  hot-headed  and  hard-hearted  of  prelates ;  and  the  defense 
is  that  he  took  his  little  son  on  his  knee,  and  kissed  him!  We 
censure  him  for  having  violated  the  articles  of  the  Petition  of 
Right,  after  having,  for  good  and  valuable  consideration,  prom- 
ised to  observe  them ;  and  we  are  informed  that  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  hear  prayers  at  six  o'clock  in  the  morning!  It  is  to 
such  considerations  as  these,  together  with  his  Vandyke  ^  dre-ss, 
his  handsome  face,  and  his  peaked  beard,  that  he  owes,  we  verily 
beHeve,  most  of  his  popularity  with  the  present  generation. 

For  ourselves,  we  own  that  we  do  not  understand  the  common 
phrase,  "a  good  man,  but  a  bad  king."  We  can  as  easily  con- 
ceive a  good  man  and  an  unnatural  father,  or  a  good  man  and 
a  treacherous  friend.  We  cannot,  in  estimating  the  character  of 
an  individual,  leave  out  of  our  consideration  his  conduct  in  the 
most  important  of  all  human  relations ;  and  if  in  that  relation  we 
find  him  to  have  been  selfish,  cruel,  and  deceitful,  we  shall  take 
the  liberty  to  call  him  a  bad  man,  in  spite  of  all  his  temperance 
at  table,  and  all  his  regularity  at  chapel. 

We  cannot  refrain  from  adding  a  few  words  respecting  a  topic 
on  which  the  defenders  of  Charles  are  fond  of  dwelHng.  If, 
they  say,  he  governed  his  people  ill,  he  at  least  governed  them 
after  the  example  of  his  predecessors.  If  he  violated  their  privi- 
leges, it  was  because  those  privileges  had  not  been  accurately 
defined.     No  act  of  oppression  has  ever  been  imputed  to  him 

1  Properly  spelled  Van  Dyck, — a  distinguished  portrait  painter  (1599- 
1 641).  He  was  born  at  Antwerp,  but  lived  for  most  of  his  life  in  England, 
where  he  painted  portraits  of  many  of  the  historical  characters  of  Charles's 
court 


62  MACAULAY, 

which  has  not  a  parallel  in  the  annals  of  the  Tudors.^  This 
point  Hume  has  labored,  with  an  art  which  is  as  discreditable  in 
a  historical  work  as  it  would  be  admirable  in  a  forensic  address. 
The  answer  is  short,  clear,  and  decisive.  Charles  had  assented 
to  the  Petition  of  Right.  He  had  renounced  the  oppressive 
powers  said  to  have  been  exercised  by  his  predecessors,  and  he 
had  renounced  them  for  money.  He  was  not  entitled  to  set  up 
his  antiquated  claims  against  his  own  recent  release. 

These  arguments  are  so  obvious  that  it  may  seem  superfluous 
to  dwell  upon  them ;  but  those  who  have  observed  how  much 
the  events  of  that  time  are  misrepresented  and  misunderstood, 
will  not  blame  us  for  stating  the  case  simply.  It  is  a  case  of 
which  the  simplest  statement  is  the  strongest. 

The  enemies  of  the  Parliament,  indeed,  rarely  choose  to  take 
issue  on  the  great  points  of  the  question.  They  content  them- 
selves with  exposing  some  of  the  crimes  and  follies  to  which 
public  commotions  necessarily  give  birth.  They  bewail  the  un- 
merited fate  of  Strafford.2  They  execrate  the  lawless  violence 
of  the  army.  They  laugh  at  the  scriptural  names  of  the  preach- 
ers. Major  generals  fleecing  their  districts ;  soldiers  reveling  on 
the  spoils  of  a  ruined  peasantry ;  upstarts,  enriched  by  the  public 
plunder,  taking  possession  of  the  hospitable  firesides  and  heredi- 
tary trees  of  the  old  gentry ;  boys  smashing  the  beautiful  win- 
dows of  cathedrals;  Quakers ^  riding  naked  through  the  market 
place  ;  Fifth-monarchy  men  ^  shouting  for  King  Jesus  ;  agitators 

1  A  dynasty  of  English  rulers,  beginning  with  Henry  VII.,  and  occupy- 
ing the  throne  until  succeeded  by  the  Stuarts,  Queen  Elizabeth  being  the  last 
Tudor  sovereign. 

2  Thomas  Wentworth,  Earl  of  Strafford  (i  593-1641),  a  leading  member 
at  first  of  the  opposition  in  Parliament  to  Charles  I.  He  subsequently  joined 
the  king's  party,  and  became  his  chief  counselor  and  adviser  in  all  his  acts  of 
usurpation  and  tyranny.      He  was  executed  on  Tower  Hill  in  1641. 

3  A  religious  society  originally  known  as  Friends,  founded  by  George 
Fox  about  1648.  The  name  Quaker  was  afterwards  applied  to  them  in  con- 
tempt. 

4  Fifth-monarchy  men  were  sectaries   who  believed  that  they  were  to 


MILTON,  63 

lecturing  from  the  tops  of  tubs  on  the  fate  of  Agag; — all  these, 
they  tell  us,  were  the  offspring  of  the  Great  Rebelhon. 

Be  it  so.  We  are  not  careful  to  answer  in  this  matter.  These 
charges,  were  they  infinitely  more  important,  would  not  alter  our 
opinion  of  an  event  which  alone  has  made  us  to  differ  from  the 
slaves  who  crouch  beneath  despotic  scepters.  Many  evils,  no 
doubt,  were  produced  by  the  civil  war.  They  were  the  price  of 
our  liberty.  Has  the  acquisition  been  worth  the  sacrifice  ?  It 
is  the  nature  of  the  devil  of  tyranny  to  tear  and  rend  the  body 
which  he  leaves.  Are  the  miseries  of  continued  possession  less 
horrible  than  the  struggles  of  the  tremendous  exorcism? 

If  it  were  possible  that  a  people  brought  up  under  an  intoler- 
ant and  arbitrary  system  could  subvert  that  system  without  acts 
of  cruelty  and  folly,  half  the  objections  to  despotic  power  would 
be  removed.  We  should,  in  that  case,  be  compelled  to  acknowl- 
edge that  it  at  least  produces  no  pernicious  effects  on  the  intel- 
lectuaf  and  moral  character  of  a  nation.  We  deplore  the  out- 
rages which  accompany  revolutions.  But  the  more  violent  the 
outrages,  the  more  assured  w^e  feel  that  a  revolution  was  neces- 
sary. The  violence  of  those  outrages  will  always  be  proportion- 
ed to  the  ferocity  and  ignorance  of  the  people,  and  the  ferocity 
and  ignorance  of  the  people  will  be  proportioned  to  the  oppres- 
sion and  degradation  under  which  they  have  been  accustomed 
to  live.  Thus  it  was  in  our  civil  war.  The  heads  of  the  Church 
and  State  reaped  only  that  which  they  had  sown.  The  govern- 
ment had  prohibited  free  discussion ;  it  had  done  its  best  to 
keep  the  people  unacquainted  with  their  duties  and  their  rights. 
The  retribution  was  just  and  natural.  If  our  rulers  suffered  from 
popular  ignorance,  it  was  because  they  had  themselves  taken  away 
the  key  of  knowledge.  If  they  were  assailed  with  blind  fury,  it 
was  because  they  had  exacted  an  equally  blind  submission. 

It  is  the  character  of  such  revolutions  that  we  always  see  the 

prepare  the  way  for  the  reign  on  earth  of  Christ  and  his  saints,  which 
was  to  form  the  fifth  monarchy,  after  the  Assyrian,  Persian,  Greek,  and 
Roman. 


64  MACAULAY. 

worst  of  them  at  first.  Till  men  have  been  some  time  free,  they 
know  not  how  to  use  their  freedom.  The  natives  of  wine  coun- 
tries are  generally  sober.  In  climates  where  wine  is  a  rarity  in- 
temperance abounds.  A  newly  hberated  people  may  be  com- 
pared to  a  northern  army  encamped  on  the  Rhine  or  the  Xeres.^ 
It  is  said  that,  when  soldiers  in  such  a  situation  first  find  them- 
selves able  to  indulge  without  restraint  in  such  a  rare  and  expen- 
sive luxury,  nothing  is  to  be  seen  but  intoxication.  Soon,  how- 
ever, plenty  teaches  discretion,  and,  after  wine  has  been  for  a 
few  months  their  daily  fare,  they  become  more  temperate  than 
they  had  ever  been  in  their  own  country.  In  the  same  manner, 
the  final  and  permanent  fruits  of  hberty  are  wisdom,  moderation, 
and  mercy.  Its  immediate  effects  are  often  atrocious  crimes, 
conflicting  errors,  skepticism  on  points  the  most  clear,  dogmatism 
on  points  the  most  mysterious.  It  is  just  at  this  crisis  that  its 
enemies  love  to  exhibit  it.  They  pull  down  the  scaffolding  from 
the  half-finished  edifice ;  they  point  to  the  flying  dust,  the  fall- 
ing bricks,  the  comfortless  rooms,  the  frightful  irregularity  of  the 
whole  appearance ;  and  then  ask  in  scorn  where  the  promised 
splendor  and  comfort  is  to  be  found.  If  such  miserable  sophisms 
were  to  prevail  there  would  never  be  a  good  house  or  a  good 
government  in  the  world. 

Ariosto  tells  a  pretty  story  2  of  a  fairy,  who,  by  some  mysterious 
law  of  her  nature,  was  condemned  to  appear  at  certain  seasons 
in  the  form  of  a  foul  and  poisonous  snake.  Those  who  injured 
her  during  the  period  of  her  disguise  were  forever  excluded  from 
participation  in  the  blessings  which  she  bestowed.  But  to  those 
who,  in  spite  of  her  loathsome  aspect,  pitied  and  protected  her, 
she  afterwards  revealed  herself  in  the  beautiful  and  celestial  form 
which  was  natural  to  her ;  accompanied  their  steps,  granted  all 
their  wishes,  filled  their  houses  with  wealth,  made  them  happy  in 
love  and  victorious  in  war.     Such  a  spirit  is  Liberty.     At  times 

1  A  city  (not  a  river)  of  Spain,  famous  for  the  production  of  sherry  wine, 
which  takes  its  name  from  that  of  the  place. 

2  In  his  poem,  Orlando  Furioso,  Canto  XLIII. 


MILTON.  65 

she  takes  the  form  of  a  hateful  reptile.  She  grovels,  she  hisses, 
she  stings.  But  woe  to  those  who  in  disgust  shall  venture  to 
crush  her!  And  happy  are  those  who,  having  dared  to  receive 
her  in  her  degraded  and  frightful  shape,  shall  at  length  be  re- 
warded by  her  in  the  time  of  her  beauty  and  her  glory! 

There  is  only  one  cure  for  the  evils  which  newly  acquired 
freedom  produces ;  and  that  cure  is  freedom.  When  a  prisoner 
first  leaves  his  cell  he  cannot  bear  the  hght  of  day ;  he  is  unable 
to  discriminate  colors,  or  recognize  faces.  But  the  remedy  is, 
not  to  remand  him  into  his  dungeon,  but  to  accustom  him  to  the 
rays  of  the  sun.  The  blaze  of  truth  and  liberty  may  at  first 
dazzle  and  bewilder  nations  which  have  become  half  blind  in 
the  house  of  bondage.  But  let  them  gaze  on,  and  they  will 
soon  be  able  to  bear  it.  In  a  few  years  men  learn  to  reason. 
The  extreme  violence  of  opinions  subsides.  Hostile  theories 
correct  each  other.  The  scattered  elements  of  truth  cease  to 
contend,  and  begin  to  coalesce.  And  at  length  a  system  of  jus- 
tice and  order  is  educed  out  of  the  chaos. 

Many  poHticians  of  our  time  are  in  the  habit  of  laying  it  down 
as  a  self-evident  proposition,  that  no  people  ought  to  be  free  till 
they  are  fit  to  use  their  freedom.  The  maxim  is  worthy  of  the 
fool  in  the  old  story,  who  resolved  not  to  go  into  the  water  till 
he  had  learned  to  swim.  If  men  are  to  wait  for  liberty  till  they 
become  wise  and  good  in  slavery,  they  may  indeed  wait  forever. 

Therefore  it  is  that  we  decidedly  approve  of  the  conduct  of 
Milton  and  the  other  wise  and  good  men  who,  in  spite  of  much 
that  was  ridiculous  and  hateful  in  the  conduct  of  their  associates, 
stood  firmly  by  the  cause  of  pubhc  liberty.  We  are  not  aware 
that  the  poet  has  been  charged  with  personal  participation  in  any 
of  the  blamable  excesses  of  that  time.  The  favorite  topic  of  his 
enemies  is  the  hne  of  conduct  which  he  pursued  with  regard  to 
the  execution  of  the  king.  Of  that  celebrated  proceeding  we  by 
no  means  approve.  Still  we  must  say,  in  justice  to  the  many 
eminent  persons  who  concurred  in  it,  and  in  justice  more  partic- 
ularly to  the  eminent  person  who  defended  it,  that  nothing  can 


66  MACAULAY, 

be  more  absurd  than  the  imputations  which,  for  the  last  hundred 
and  sixty  years,  it  has  been  the  fashion  to  cast  upon  the  Regi- 
cides.^ We  have,  throughout,  abstained  from  appeaHng  to  first 
principles.  We  will  not  appeal  to  them  now.  We  recur  again 
to  the  parallel  case  of  the  Revolution.  What  essential  distinc- 
tion can  be  drawn  between  the  execution  of  the  father  and  the 
deposition  of  the  son  ?  What  constitutional  maxim  is  there 
which  applies  to  the  former  and  not  to  the  latter?  The  king 
can  do  no  wrong.  If  so,  James  was  as  innocent  as  Charles 
could  have  been.  The  minister,  only,  ought  to  be  responsible  for 
the  acts  of  the  sovereign.  If  so,  why  not  impeach  Jeffreys  2  and 
retain  James  ?  The  person  of  a  king  is  sacred.  Was  the  person 
of  James  considered  sacred  at  the  Boyne?^  To  discharge  can- 
non against  an  army  in  which  a  king  is  known  to  be  posted  is  to 
approach  pretty  near  to  regicide.  Charles,  too,  it  should  always 
be  remembered,  was  put  to  death  by  men  who  had  been  exas- 
perated by  the  hostilities  of  several  years,  and  who  had  never 
been  bound  to  him  by  any  other  tie  than  that  which  was  com- 
mon to  them  with  all  their  fellow-citizens.  Those  who  drove 
James  from  his  throne,  who  seduced  his  army,  who  ahenated  his 
friends,  who  first  imprisoned  him  in  his  palace,  and  then  turned 
him  out  of  it,  who  broke  in  upon  his  very  slumbers  by  imperious 
messages,  who  pursued  him  with  fire  and  sword  from  one  part 
of  the  empire  to  another,  who  hanged,  drew,  and  quartered  his 
adherents,  and  attainted  his  innocent  heir,  were  his  nephew  ^  and 
his  two  daughters.^     When  we  reflect  on  all  these  things,  we  are 

1  The  men,  sixty-seven  in  number,  who  sat  in  trial  upon  Charles  I.  and 
signed  his  death  warrant.  Many  of  them  were  executed  after  the  Resto- 
ration. 

2  A  brutal  chief  justice  in  the  reigns  of  Charles  II.  and  James  II.,  who 
presided  at  the  **  Bloody  Assizes,"  and  condemned  over  three  hundred  per- 
sons to  death. 

3  A  river  of  Ireland,  on  the  banks  of  which  was  fought,  July  i,  1690,  the 
battle  in  which  William  III.  defeated  the  exiled  James  II. 

4  William  III. 

5  Mary,  William's  wife,  and  Anne,  queen  after  William's  death. 


MILTON.  67 

at  a  loss  to  conceive  how  the  same  persons  who,  on  the  5th  of 
November,^  thank  God  for  wonderfully  conducting  his  servant 
William,  and  for  making  all  opposition  fall  before  him  until  he 
became  our  king  and  governor,  can,  on  the  30th  of  January ,2 
contrive  to  be  afraid  that  the  blood  of  the  Royal  Martyr  may  be 
visited  on  themselves  and  their  children. 

We  disapprove,  we  repeat,  of  the  execution  of  Charles ;  not 
because  the  constitution  exempts  the  king  from  responsibility, 
for  we  know  that  all  such  maxims,  however  excellent,  have  their 
exceptions ;  nor  because  we  feel  any  peculiar  interest  in  his 
character,  for  we  think  that  his  sentence  describes  him  with 
perfect  justice  as  ''  a  tyrant,  a  traitor,  a  murderer,  and  a  public 
enemy;"  but  because  we  are  convinced  that  the  measure  was 
most  injurious  to  the  cause  of  freedom.  He  whom  it  removed 
was  a  captive  and  a  hostage ;  his  heir,  to  whom  the  allegiance 
of  every  Royalist  was  instantly  transferred,  was  at  large.  The 
Presbyterians  could  never  have  been  perfectly  reconciled  to  the 
father ;  they  had  no  such  rooted  enmity  to  the  son.  The  great 
body  of  the  people,  also,  contemplated  that  proceeding  with  feel- 
ings which,  however  unreasonable,  no  government  could  safely 
venture  to  outrage. 

But  though  we  think  the  conduct  of  the  Regicides  blamable, 
that  of  Milton  appears  to  us  in  a  very  differeiat  light.  The  deed 
was  done.  It  could  not  be  undone.  The  evil  was  incurred ; 
and  the  object  was  to  render  it  as  small  as  possible.  We  censure 
the  chiefs  of  the  army  for  not  yielding  to  the  popular  opinion ; 
but  we  cannot  censure  Milton  for  wishing  to  change  that  opinion. 
The  very  feehng  which  would  have  restrained  us  from  commit- 
ting the  act  would  have  led  us,  after  it  had  been  committed,  to 
defend  it  against  the  ravings  of  servility  and  superstition.  For 
the  sake  of  public  liberty  we  wish  that  the  thing  had  not  been 
done  while  the  people  disapproved  of  it.     But,  for  the  sake  of 

1  The  day  of  William's  landing  in  England,  1688. 

2  The  day  of  the  execution  of  Charles  I.,  1649. 


68  MACAU  LAY. 

public  liberty,  we  should  also  have  wished  the  people  to  approve 
of  it  when  it  was  done.  If  anything  more  were  wanting  to  the 
justification  of  Milton,  the  book  of  Salmasius  ^  would  furnish  it. 
That  miserable  performance  is  now  with  justice  considered  only 
as  a  beacon  to  word-catchers  who  wish  to  become  statesmen. 
The  celebrity  of  the  man  who  refuted  it,  the  "^neae  magni 
dextra,"  ^  gives  it  all  its  fame  with  the  present  generation.  In 
that  age  the  state  of  things  was  different.  It  was  not  then  fully 
understood  how  vast  an  interval  separates  the  mere  classical 
scholar  from  the  poHtical  philosopher.  Nor  can  it  be  doubted 
that  a  treatise  which,  bearing  the  name  of  so  eminent  a  critic, 
attacked  the  fundamental  principles  of  all  free  governments, 
must,  if  suffered  to  remain  unanswered,  have  produced  a  most 
pernicious  effect  on  the  pubhc  mind. 

We  wish  to  add  a  few  words  relative  to  another  subject,  on 
which  the  enemies  of  Milton  dehght  to  dwell, — his  conduct  dur- 
ing the  administration  of  the  Protector.^  That  an  enthusiastic 
votary  of  liberty  should  accept  office  under  a  military  usurper 
seems,  no  doubt,  at  first  sight,  extraordinary.  But  all  the  circum- 
stances in  which  the  country  was  then  placed  were  extraordinary. 
The  ambition  of  OHver  was  of  no  vulgar  kind.  He  never  seems 
to  have  coveted  despotic  power.  He  at  first  fought  sincerely 
and  manfully  for  the  Parliament,  and  never  deserted  it  till  it  had 
deserted  its  duty.  If  he  dissolved  it  by  force,  it  was  not  till  he 
found  that  the  few  members  who  remained  after  so  many  deaths, 
secessions,  and  expulsions,  were  desirous  to  appropriate  to  them- 
selves a  power  which  they  held  only  in  trust,  and  to  inflict  upon 
England  the  curse  of  a  Venetian  oligarchy.^  But  even  when 
thus  placed  by  violence  at  the  head  of  affairs,  he  did  not  assume 

1  See  Introduction,  p.  i6. 

2  **^ne3e  magni  dextra  (cadis),"  thou  fallest  by  the  right  hand  of  the 
great  ^neas.     Virgil's  y^neid,  Book  X.,  line  830. 

3  The  title  assumed  by  Oliver  Cromwell  with  his  supreme  power  in  the 
government  of  the  Commonwealth. 

4  An  oligarchy  is  a  government  by  a  few ;  an  aristocracy. 


MILTON,  69 

unlimited  power.  He  gave  the  country  a  constitution  far  more 
perfect  than  any  which  had  at  that  time  been  known  in  the 
world.  He  reformed  the  representative  system  in  a  manner 
which  has  extorted  praise  even  from  Lord  Clarendon.  For  him- 
self he  demanded,  indeed,  the  first  place  in  the  Commonwealth ; 
but  with  powers  scarcely  so  great  as  those  of  a  Dutch  stadt- 
holder  ^  or  an  American  president.  He  gave  the  Parliament  a 
voice  in  the  appointment  of  ministers,  and  left  to  it  the  whole 
legislative  authority,  not  even  reserving  to  himself  a  veto  on  its 
enactments ;  and  he  did  not  require  that  the  chief  magistracy 
should  be  hereditary  in  his  family.  Thus  far,  we  think,  if  the 
circumstances  of  the  time  and  the  opportunities  which  he  had  of 
aggrandizing  himself  be  fairly  considered,  he  will  not  lose  by 
comparison  with  Washington  2  or  BoHvar.^  Had  his  moderation 
been  met  by  corresponding  moderation,  there  is  no  reason  to 
think  that  he  would  have  overstepped  the  line  which  he  had 
traced  for  himself.  But  when  he  found  that  his  Parliaments 
questioned  the  authority  under  which  they  met,  and  that  he  was 
in  danger  of  being  deprived  of  the  restricted  power  which  was 
absolutely  necessary  to  his  personal  safety,  then  it  must  be  ac- 
knowledged he  adopted  a  more  arbitrary  policy. 

Yet,  though  we  believe  that  the  intentions  of  Cromwell  were 
at  first  honest,  though  we  believe  that  he  was  driven  from  the 
noble  course  which  he  had  marked  out  for  himself  by  the  almost 
irresistible  force  of  circumstances,  though  we  admire,  in  common 
with  all  men  of  all  parties,  the  ability  and  energy  of  his  splendid 
administration,  we  are  not  pleading  for  arbitrary  and  lawless 
power,  even  in  his  hands.  We  know  that  a  good  constitution  is 
infinitely  better  than  the  best  despot.     But  we  suspect,  that  at 

1  English  form  of  the  Dutch  stadhoicder^  a  title  given  to  the  governor  of  a 
province  in  Holland. 

2  George  Washington  (1732-99),  the  first  President  of  the  United  States 
of  America. 

3  A  South  American  patriot  called  "  The  Liberator,"  for  having  put  an 
end  to  Spanish  rule  in  that  country. 


70  MAC  AULA  Y, 

the  time  of  which  we  speak,  the  violence  of  reHgious  and  pohtical 
enmities  rendered  a  stable  and  happy  settlement  next  to  impos- 
sible. The  choice  lay,  not  between  Cromwell  and  hberty,  but 
between  Cromwell  and  the  Stuarts.  That  Milton  chose  well  no 
man  can  doubt  who  fairly  compares  the  events  of  the  Protecto- 
rate with  those  of  the  thirty  years  which  succeeded  it,  the  darkest 
and  most  disgraceful  in  the  English  annals.  Cromwell  was  evi- 
dently laying,  though  in  an  irregular  manner,  the  foundations  of 
an  admirable  system.  Never  before  had  reHgious  liberty  and  the 
freedom  of  discussion  been  enjoyed  in  a  greater  degree.  Never 
had  the  national  honor  been  better  upheld  abroad,  or  the  seat  of 
justice  better  filled  at  home.  And  it  was  rarely  that  any  opposi- 
tion which  stopped  short  of  open  rebellion  provoked  the  resent- 
ment of  the  hberal  and  magnanimous  usurper.  The  institutions 
which  he  had  established,  as  set  down  in  the  Instrument  of  Gov- 
ernment and  the  Humble  Petition  and  Advice,  were  excellent. 
His  practice,  it  is  true,  too  often  departed  from  the  theory  of 
these  institutions.  But  had  he  lived  a  few  years  longer,  it  is 
probable  that  his  institutions  would  have  survived  him,  and  that 
his  arbitrary  practice  would  have  died  with  him.  His  power 
had  not  been  consecrated  by  ancient  prejudices.  It  was  upheld 
only  by  his  great  personal  qualities.  Little,  therefore,  was  to  be 
dreaded  from  a  second  Protector,  unless  he  were  also  a  second 
Oliver  Cromwell.  The  events  which  followed  his  decease  are 
the  most  complete  vindication  of  those  who  exerted  themselves 
to  uphold  his  authority.  His  death  dissolved  the  whole  frame 
of  society.  The  army  rose  against  the  Parliament,  the  different 
corps  of  the  army  against  each  other.  Sect  raved  against  sect. 
Party  plotted  against  party.  The  Presbyterians,  in  their  eager- 
ness to  be  revenged  on  the  Independents,^  sacrificed  their  own 
liberty,  and  deserted  all  their  old  principles.  Without  casting 
one  glance  on  the  past,  or  requiring  one  stipulation  for  the  future, 

1  Seceders  from  the  F/esbyterian  body,  who  composed  the  greater  part  of 
the  Parhamentary  army. 


MILTON.  71 

they  threw  down  their  freedom  at  the  feet  of  the  most  frivolous 
and  heartless  of  tyrants. 

Then  came  those  days,  never  to  be  recalled  without  a  blush, 
the  days  of  servitude  without  loyalty,  and  sensuality  without 
love  ;  of  dwarfish  talents  and  gigantic  vices  ;  the  paradise  of  cold 
hearts  and  narrow  minds ;  the  golden  age  of  the  coward,  the 
bigot,  and  the  slave.  The  king  cringed  to  his  rival  that  he  might 
trample  on  his  people,  sank  into  a  viceroy  of  France,  and  pock- 
eted with  complacent  infamy  her  degrading  insults  and  her  more 
degrading  gold.  The  caresses  of  harlots  and  the  jests  of  buffoons 
regulated  the  policy  of  the  state.  The  government  had  just 
abihty  enough  to  deceive,  and  just  rehgion  enough  to  persecute. 
The  principles  of  liberty  were  the  scoff  of  every  grinning  courtier, 
and  the  Anathema  Maranatha  ^  of  every  fawning  dean.  In  every 
high  place,  worship  was  paid  to  Charles  and  James,  Belial  2  and 
Moloch  ;^  and  England  propitiated  those  obscene  and  cruel  idols 
with  the  blood  of  her  best  and  bravest  children.  Crime  suc- 
ceeded to  crime,  and  disgrace  to  disgrace,  till  the  race,  accursed 
of  God  and  man,  was  a  second  time  driven  forth,  to  wander  on 
the  face  of  the  earth,  and  to  be  a  byword  and  a  shaking  of  the 
head  to  the  nations. 

Most  of  the  remarks  which  we  have  hitherto  made  on  the 
public  character  of  Milton  apply  to  him  only  as  one  of  a  large 
body.  We  shall  proceed  to  notice  some  of  the  pecuHarities 
which  distinguished  him  from  his  contemporaries.  And  for  that 
purpose  it  is  necessary  to  take  a  short  survey  of  the  parties  into 
which  the  poHtical  world  was  at  that  time  divided.     We  must 

1  ** Anathema  Maranatha,"  i.e.,  a  form  of  denunciation,  as  in  i  Cor.  xvi. 
22.  Anathema  is  Greek  for  "curse;  "  maranatha,  a  Syriac  word,  signifying 
'*  the  Lord  will  come." 

2  A  Hebrew  word  often  used  by  translators  of  the  Bible  as  a  proper  name, 
but  really  an  abstract  term  meaning  "worthlessness,"  and  hence  **wicked- 
ness." 

3  Worshiped  as  a  deity  with  cruel  rites  among  the  Ammonites  in  the  days 
of  Solomon,  and  at  a  later  date  among  the  Jews. 


72  MACAULAY. 

premise  that  our  observations  are  intended  to  apply  only  to  those 
who  adhered,  from  a  sincere  preference,  to  one  or  to  the  other 
side.  In  days  of  public  commotion  every  faction,  hke  an  Orien- 
tal army,  is  attended  by  a  crowd  of  camp  followers,  a  useless 
and  heartless  rabble,  who  prowl  round  its  line  of  march  in  the 
hope  of  picking  up  something  under  its  protection,  but  desert  it 
in  the  day  of  battle,  and  often  join  to  exterminate  it  after  a  de- 
feat. England,  at  the  time  of  which  we  are  treating,  abounded 
with  fickle  and  selfish  politicians,  who  transferred  their  support 
to  every  government  as  it  rose ;  who  kissed  the  hand  of  the  king 
in  1640,  and  spat  in  his  face  in  1649  I  who  shouted  with  equal 
glee  when  Cromwell  was  inaugurated  in  Westminster  Hall,  and 
when  he  was  dug  up  to  be  hanged  at  Tyburn ;  who  dined  on 
calves'  heads,  or  stuck  up  oak  branches,  as  circumstances  altered, 
without  the  slightest  shame  or  repugnance.  These  we  leave  out 
of  the  account.  We  take  our  estimate  of  parties  from  those  who 
really  deserve  to  be  called  partisans. 

We  would  speak  first  of  the  Puritans,  the  most  remarkable 
body  of  men,  perhaps,  which  the  world  has  ever  produced.  The 
odious  and  ridiculous  parts  of  their  character  He  on  the  surface. 
He  that  runs  may  read  them  ;  nor  have  there  been  wanting  atten- 
tive and  malicious  observers  to  point  them  out.  For  many  years 
after  the  Restoration  they  were  the  theme  of  unmeasured  invec- 
tive and  derision.  They  were  exposed  to  the  utmost  Hcentious- 
ness  of  the  press  and  of  the  stage,  at  the  time  when  the  press  and 
the  stage  were  most  Hcentious.  They  were  not  men  of  letters ; 
they  were,  as  a  body,  unpopular ;  they  could  not  defend  them- 
selves ;  and  the  public  would  not  take  them  under  its  protection. 
They  were  therefore  abandoned,  without  reserve,  to  the  tender 
mercies  of  the  satirists  and  dramatists.  The  ostentatious  sim- 
phcity  of  their  dress,  their  sour  aspect,  their  nasal  twang,  their 
stiff  posture,  their  long  graces,  their  Hebrew  names,  the  scriptural 
phrases  which  they  introduced  on  every  occasion,  their  contempt 
of  human  learning,  their  detestation  of  poHte  amusements,  were 
indeed  fair  game  for  the  laughers.     But  it  is  not  from  the  laugh- 


MILTON,  73 

ers  alone  that  the  philosophy  of  history  is  to  be  learned.  And 
he  who  approaches  this  subject  should  carefully  guard  against 
the  influence  of  that  potent  ridicule  which  has  already  misled  so 
many  excellent  writers. 

'*  Ecco  il  fonte  del  riso,  ed  ecco  il  rio 
Che  mortali  perigli  in  se  contiene : 
Hor  qui  tener  a  fren  nostro  desio, 
Ed  esser  cauti  molto  a  noi  conviene."^ 

Those  who  roused  the  people  to  resistance ;  who  directed  their 
measures  through  a  long  series  of  eventful  years ;  who  formed, 
out  of  the  most  unpromising  materials,  the  finest  army  that 
Europe  had  ever  seen ;  who  trampled  down  king,  church,  and 
aristocracy ;  who,  in  the  short  intervals  of  domestic  sedition  and 
rebeUion,  made  the  name  of  England  terrible  to  every  nation  on 
the  face  of  the  earth, — were  no  vulgar  fanatics.  Most  of  their 
absurdities  were  mere  external  badges,  hke  the  signs  of  free- 
masonry, or  the  dresses  of  friars.  We  regret  that  these  badges 
were  not  more  attractive.  We  regret  that  a  body  to  whose  cour- 
age and  talents  mankind  has  owed  inestimable  obligations,  had 
not  the  lofty  elegance  which  distinguished  some  of  the  adherents 
of  Charles  I.,  or  the  easy  good  breeding  for  which  the  court  of 
Charles  II.  was  celebrated.  But,  if  we  must  make  our  choice, 
we  shall,  like   Bassanio^  in   the   play,  turn  from  the  specious 

1  "  This  is  the  source  of  laughter  and  this  the  stream 
Which  contains  mortal  perils  in  itself: 
Now  here  to  hold  in  check  our  desire, 
And  to  be  very  cautious,  becomes  us." 

2  In  Shakespeare's  Merchant  of  Venice,  Portia,  in  accordance  with  her 
father's  will,  was  to  take  for  her  husband  that  one  of  her  suitors  who  should 
select  from  among  three  caskets,  of  gold,  silver,  and  lead  respectively,  the 
one  in  which  her  portrait  had  been  placed.  Bassanio,  in  choosing  the  leaden 
casket,  became  possessed  of  the  portrait  and  the  lady,  the  two  other  suitors 
selecting  the  gold  and  silver  caskets,  in  which  respectively  a  death's-head 
and  a  fool's  head  were  found. 


74  MACAULAY, 

caskets  which  contain  only  the  death's-head  and  the  fool's  head, 
and  fix  on  the  plain  leaden  chest  which  conceals  the  treasure. 

The  Puritans  were  men  whose  minds  had  derived  a  peculiar 
character  from  the  daily  contemplation  of  superior  beings  and 
eternal  interests.  Not  content  with  acknowledging,  in  general 
terms,  an  overruling  Providence,  they  habitually  ascribed  every 
event  to  the  will  of  the  Great  Being,  for  whose  power  nothing 
was  too  vast,  for  whose  inspection  nothing  was  too  minute.  To 
know  Him,  to  serve  Him,  to  enjoy  Him,  was  with  them  the 
great  end  of  existence.  They  rejected  with  contempt  the  cere- 
monious homage  which  other  sects  substituted  for  the  pure  wor- 
ship of  the  soul.  Instead  of  catching  occasional  ghmpses  of  the 
Deity  through  an  obscuring  veil,  they  aspired  to  gaze  full  on  the 
intolerable  brightness,  and  to  commune  with  Him  face  to  face. 
Hence  originated  their  contempt  for  terrestrial  distinctions.  The 
difference  between  the  greatest  and  the  meanest  of  mankind 
seemed  to  vanish,  when  compared  with  the  boundless  interval 
which  separated  the  whole  race  from  Him  on  whom  their  own 
eyes  were  constantly  fixed.  They  recognized  no  title  to  superi- 
ority but  His  favor ;  and,  confident  of  that  favor,  they  despised 
all  the  accompHshments  and  all  the  dignities  of  the  world.  If 
they  were  unacquainted  with  the  works  of  philosophers  and  poets, 
they  were  deeply  read  in  the  oracles  of  God.  If  their  names 
were  not  found  in  the  registers  of  heralds,  they  were  recorded  in 
the  Book  of  Life.  If  their  steps  were  not  accompanied  by  a 
splendid  train  of  menials,  legions  of  ministering  angels  had 
charge  over  them.  Their  palaces  were  houses  not  made  with 
hands ;  their  diadems,  crowns  of  glory  which  should  never  fade 
away.  On  the  rich  and  the  eloquent,  on  nobles  and  priests,  they 
looked  down  with  contempt ;  for  they  esteemed  themselves  rich 
in  a  more  precious  treasure,  and  eloquent  in  a  more  sublime 
language,  nobles  by  the  right  of  an  earher  creation,  and  priests 
by  the  imposition  of  a  mightier  hand.  The  very  meanest  of 
them  was  a  being  to  whose  fate  a  mysterious  and  terrible  impor- 
tance belonged,  on  whose  slightest  action  the  spirits  of  hght  and 


MILTON.  75 

darkness  looked  with  anxious  interest ;  who  had  been  destined, 
before  heaven  and  earth  were  created,  to  enjoy  a  felicity  which 
should  continue  when  heaven  and  earth  should  have  passed 
away.  Events  which  shortsighted  politicians  ascribed  to  earthly 
causes  had  been  ordained  on  his  account.  For  his  sake  em- 
pires had  risen,  and  flourished,  and  decayed.  For  his  sake  the 
Almighty  had  proclaimed  His  will  by  the  pen  of  the  Evangel- 
ist and  the  harp  of  the  prophet.  He  had  been  wrested  by  no 
common  deliverer  from  the  grasp  of  no  common  foe.  He  had 
been  ransomed  by  the  sweat  of  no  vulgar  agony,  by  the  blood 
of  no  earthly  sacrifice.  It  was  for  him  that  the  sun  had  been 
darkened,  that  the  rocks  had  been  rent,  that  the  dead  had  risen, 
that  all  nature  had  shuddered  at  the  sufferings  of  her  expiring 
God. 

Thus  the  Puritan  was  made  up  of  two  different  men :  the  one 
all  self-abasement,  penitence,  gratitude,  passion  ;  the  other  proud, 
calm,  inflexible,  sagacious.  He  prostrated  himself  in  the  dust 
before  his  Maker ;  but  he  set  his  foot  on  the  neck  of  his  king. 
In  his  devotional  retirement,  he  prayed  with  convulsions,  and 
groans,  and  tears.  He  was  half  maddened  by  glorious  or  terrible 
illusions.  He  heard  the  lyres  of  angels  or  the  tempting  whispers 
of  fiends.  He  caught  a  gleam  of  the  Beatific  Vision,  or  woke 
screaming  from  dreams  of  everlasting  fire.  Like  Vane,^  he 
thought  himself  intrusted  with  the  scepter  of  the  millennial  ^ 
year.  Like  Fleetwood,^  he  cried  in  the  bitterness  of  his  soul  that 
God  had  hid  his  face  from  him.  But  when  he  took  his  seat 
in  the  council,  or  girt  on  his  sword  for  war,  these  tempestuous 

1  Sir  Henry  Vane  (1612-62),  identified  with  the  Puritan  cause,  was  gov- 
ernor of  Massachusetts  in  1636,  and  on  his  return  to  England  in  1637  was 
active  in  opposition  to  the  Royalist  party.  He  was  beheaded  on  Tower  Hill 
in  1662. 

2  Millennium  means  a  thousand  years,  and  refers  to  a  period  during  which 
the  Messiah,  as  the  prophecies  are  interpreted,  will  reign  in  person  on  the 
earth. 

3  Son-in-law  of  Oliver  Cromwell,  and  a  general  in  the  Parliamentary  army. 


76  MAC  AULA  Y. 

workings  of  the  soul  had  left  no  perceptible  trace  behind  them. 
People  who  saw  nothing  of  the  godly  but  their  uncouth  visages, 
and  heard  nothing  from  them  but  their  groans  and  their  whining 
hymns,  might  laugh  at  them.  But  those  had  httle  reason  to 
laugh  who  encountered  them  in  the  hall  of  debate  or  in  the  field 
of  battle.  These  fanatics  brought  to  civil  and  military  affairs 
a  coolness  of  judgment  and  an  immutability  of  purpose  which 
some  writers  have  thought  inconsistent  with  their  religious  zeal, 
but  which  were  in  fact  the  necessary  effects  of  it.  The  intensity 
of  their  feehngs  on  one  subject  made  them  tranquil  on  every 
other.  One  overpowering  sentiment  had  subjected  to  itself  pity 
and  hatred,  ambition  and  fear.  Death  had  lost  its  terrors  and 
pleasure  its  charms.  They  had  their  smiles  and  their  tears,  their 
raptures  and  their  sorrows,  but  not  for  the  things  of  this  world. 
Enthusiasm  had  made  them  Stoics,^  had  cleared  their  minds  from 
every  vulgar  passion  and  prejudice,  and  raised  them  above  the 
influence  of  danger  and  of  corruption.  It  sometimes  might  lead 
them  to  pursue  unwise  ends,  but  never  to  choose  unwise  means. 
They  went  through  the  world,  like  Sir  Artegal's  iron  man  Talus  ^ 
with  his  flail,  crushing  and  trampling  down  oppressors,  mingling 
with  human  beings,  but  having  neither  part  nor  lot  in  human 
infirmities ;  insensible  to  fatigue,  to  pleasure,  and  to  pain ;  not  to 
be  pierced  by  any  weapon,  not  to  be  withstood  by  any  barrier. 

Such  we  believe  to  have  been  the  character  of  the  Puritans. 
We  perceive  the  absurdity  of  their  manners.  We  dislike  the 
sullen  gloom  of  their  domestic  habits.  We  acknowledge  that 
the  tone  of  their  minds  was  often  injured  by  straining  after  things 
too  high  for  mortal  reach ;  and  we  know  that,  in  spite  of  their 
hatred  of  Popery,  they  too  often  fell  into  the  worst  vices  of  that 
bad  system,  —  intolerance  and  extravagant  austerity ;  that  they 

1  The  Stoic  philosophers  held  that  we  should  lead  a  passionless  life,  indif- 
ferent to  any  sensations  of  either  pleasure  or  pain. 

2  An  "  iron  man"  (representing  power),  in  the  Fifth  Book  of  Spenser's 
Faery  Queene,  follows  Sir  Artegal,  who  personates  justice,  with  an  iron  flail, 
"with  which  he  thrashed  out  falsehood  and  did  truth  unfold." 


MILTON,  77 

had  their  anchorites  and  their  crusades,^  their  Dunstans^  and  their 
De  Montforts,^  their  Dominies  ^  and  their  Escobars.^  Yet,  when 
all  circumstances  are  taken  into  consideration,  we  do  not  hesitate 
to  pronounce  them  a  brave,  a  wise,  an  honest,  and  a  useful  body. 
The  Puritans  espoused  the  cause  of  civil  liberty  mainly  be- 
cause it  was  the  cause  of  religion.  There  was  another  party,  by 
no  means  numerous,  but  distinguished  by  learning  and  abihty, 
which  acted  with  them  on  very  different  principles.  We  speak 
of  those  whom  Cromwell  was  accustomed  to  call  the  Heathens, 
men  who  were,  in  the  phraseology  of  that  time,  doubting  Thom- 
ases ®  or  careless  Gallios  '^  with  regard  to  religious  subjects,  but 
passionate  worshipers  of  freedom.  Heated  by  the  study  of  an- 
cient literature,  they  set  up  their  country  as  their  idol,  and  pro- 
posed to  themselves  the  heroes  of  Plutarch  ^  as  their  examples. 
They  seem  to  have  borne  some  resemblance  to  the  Brissotines  ^ 
of  the  French  Revolution.  But  it  is  not  very  easy  to  draw  the 
line  of  distinction  between  them  and  their  devout  associates, 
whose  tone  and  manner  they  sometimes  found  it  convenient  to 
affect,  and  sometimes,  it  is  probable,  imperceptibly  adopted. 

1  The  name  given  to  the  religious  wars  waged  in  Palestine  against  the 
Mohammedans  by  the  Christian  natives  of  Europe  in  the  eleventh,  twelfth, 
and  thirteenth  centuries,  for  the  possession  of  the  Holy  Sepulcher. 

2  St.  Dunstan,  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  in  England  in  the  tenth  century, 
who  made  the  Anglo-Saxon  Church  subject  to  that  of  Rome. 

3  De  Montfort  (i  150-1226)  was  a  French  nobleman  notorious  for  his  ter- 
rible persecution  of  the  Albigenses,  a  religious  sect  in  the  south  of  France, 
which  had  seceded  from  the  Roman  Church. 

4  Dominic,  founder  of  the  order  of  Black  Friars  or  Dominicans,  was  De 
Montfort's  associate  in  these  cruelties. 

5  Escobar  (i  589-1669),  a  Spanish  Jesuit,  was  a  writer  on  casuistry,  which 
treats  of  delicate  questions  of  conscience  and  morals. 

6  John  XX.  24,  25.  7  Acts  xviii.  17. 

®  A  Greek  writer,  author  of  parallel  Lives  of  the  most  famous  Greeks  and 
Romans.     He  lived  in  the  first  century  of  the  Christian  era. 

9  The  Girondists  in  the  French  Revolution,  who  favored  the  Republic, 
but  were  opposed  to  its  excesses :  so  called  from  their  leader,  Jean  Pierre 
Brissot. 


78>/  MACAULAY. 

We  now  come  to  the  Royalists.  We  shall  attempt  to  speak 
of  them,  as  we  have  spoken  of  their  antagonists,  with  perfect 
candor.  We  shall  not  charge  upon  a  whole  party  the.  profligacy 
and  baseness  of  the  horse  boys,  gamblers,  and  bravoes,  whom  the 
hope  of  license  and  plunder  attracted  from  all  the  dens  of  White- 
friars  to  the  standard  of  Charles,  and  who  disgraced  their  asso- 
ciates by  excesses  which,  under  the  stricter  discipline  of  the  par- 
liamentary armies,  were  never  tolerated.  We  will  select  a  more 
favorable  specimen.  Thinking  as  we  do  that  the  cause  of  the 
king  was  the  cause  of  bigotry  and  tyranny,  we  yet  cannot  refrain 
from  looking  with  complacency  on  the  character  of  the  honest 
old  Cavaliers.  We  feel  a  national  pride  in  comparing  them  with 
the  instruments  which  the  despots  of  other  countries  are  com- 
pelled to  employ  ;  with  the  mutes  who  throng  their  antechambers, 
and  the  Janissaries  ^  who  mount  guard  at  their  gates.  Our  Roya- 
list countrymen  were  not  heartless,  dangling  courtiers,  bowing 
at  every  step,  and  simpering  at  every  word.  They  were  not 
mere  machines  for  destruction,  dressed  up  in  uniforms,  caned 
into  skill,  intoxicated  into  valor,  defending  without  love,  destroy- 
ing without  hatred.  There  was  a  freedom  in  their  subserviency, 
a  nobleness  in  their  very  degradation.  The  sentiment  of  indi- 
vidual independence  was  strong  within  them.  They  were  in- 
deed misled,  but  by  no  base  or  selfish  motive.  Compassion  and 
romantic  honor,  the  prejudices  of  childhood,  and  the  venerable 
names  of  history,  threw  over  them  a  spell  potent  as  that  of 
Duessa;2  and,  like  the  Red  Cross  Knight,  they  thought  that 
they  were  doing  battle  for  an  injured  beauty,  while  they  defended 
a  false  and  loathsome  sorceress.  In  truth,  they  scarcely  entered 
at  all  into  the  merits  of  the  political  question.     It  was  not  for  a 

1  A  celebrated  body  of  Turkish  troops,  composed  mostly  of  Christian 
youths  captured  in  war  and  trained  in  military  discipline.  They  were  so 
called  from  Yeni-tsheri,  meaning  "  new  soldiers." 

2  A  sorceress  (typifying  falsehood),  in  the  First  Book  of  Spenser's  Faery 
Queene,  who  in  the  guise  of  Una  (representing  truth  and  purity)  deceives  for 
a  time  her  champion,  the  Red  Cross  Knight. 


MILTON.  79 

treacherous  king  or  an  intolerant  church  that  they  fought,  but 
for  the  old  banner  which  had  waved  in  so  many  battles  over 
the  heads  of  their  fathers,  and  for  the  altars  at  which  they  had 
received  the  hands  of  their  brides.  Though  nothing  could  be 
more  erroneous  than  their  political  opinions,  they  possessed,  in  a 
far  greater  degree  than  their  adversaries,  those  qualities  which 
are  the  grace  of  private  life.  With  many  of  the  vices  of  the 
Round  Table,!  they  had  also  many  of  its  virtues,  —  courtesy, 
generosity,  veracity,  tenderness,  and  respect  for  women.  They 
had  far  more  both  of  profound  and  of  pohte  learning  than  the 
Puritans.  Their  manners  were  more  engaging,  their  tempers 
more  amiable,  their  tastes  more  elegant,  and  their  households 
more  cheerful. 

Milton  did  not  strictly  belong  to  any  of  the  classes  which  we 
have  described.  He  was  not  a  Puritan.  He  was  not  a  free- 
thinker. He  was  not  a  Royalist.  In  his  character  the  noblest 
qualities  of  every  party  were  combined  in  harmonious  union. 
From  the  Parliament  and  from  the  court,  from  the  conventicle  ^ 
and  from  the  Gothic  cloister,^  from  the  gloomy  and  sepulchral 
circles  of  the  Roundheads,  and  from  the  Christmas  revel  of  the 
hospitable  Cavalier,  his  nature  selected  and  drew  to  itself  what- 
ever was  great  and  good,  while  it  rejected  all  the  base  and  per- 
nicious ingredients  by  which  those  finer  elements  were  defiled. 
Like  the  Puritans,  he  lived 

As  ever  in  his  great  Taskmaster's  eye.* 

Like  them,  he  kept  his  mind  continually  fixed  on  an  Almighty 
Judge  and  an  eternal  reward.  And  hence  he  acquired  their  con- 
tempt of  external  circumstances,  their  fortitude,  their  tranquillity, 

1  The  mythical  table  of  King  Arthur  and  his  knights. 

2  Originally  meaning  a  cabal  among  the  monks  of  a  monastery,  was  given 
as  a  term  of  reproach  to  meetings  of  English  or  Scotch  Nonconformists. 

3  The  cloister  was  an  arcade  around  the  open  courts  of  monasteries  and 
cathedrals,  usually  built  in  the  Gothic  style  of  architecture. 

*  See  Milton's  Sonnet  on  his  Twenty-third  Birthday. 


So  MACAULAV, 

their  inflexible  resolution.  But  not  the  coolest  skeptic  or  the 
most  profane  scoffer  was  more  perfectly  free  from  the  contagion 
of  their  frantic  delusions,  their  savage  manners,  their  ludicrous 
jargon,  their  scorn  of  science,  and  their  aversion  to  pleasure. 
Hating  tyranny  with  a  perfect  hatred,  he  had  nevertheless  all  the 
estimable  and  ornamental  qualities  which  were  almost  entirely 
monopolized  by  the  party  of  the  tyrant.  There  was  none  who 
had  a  stronger  sense  of  the  value  of  literature,  a  finer  relish  for 
every  elegant  amusement,  or  a  more  chivalrous  delicacy  of  honor 
and  love.  Though  his  opinions  were  democratic,  his  tastes  and 
his  associations  were  such  as  harmonize  best  with  monarchy  and 
aristocracy.  He  was  under  the  influence  of  all  the  feeHngs  by 
which  the  gallant  Cavahers  were  misled.  But  of  those  feehngs 
he  was  the  master  and  not  the  slave.  Like  the  hero  ^  of  Homer, 
he  enjoyed  all  the  pleasures  of  fascination ;  but  he  was  not  fas- 
cinated. He  listened  to  the  song  of  the  Sirens  ;2  yet  he  glided 
by  without  being  seduced  to  their  fatal  shore.  He  tasted  the 
cup  of  Circe ;  3  but  he  bore  about  him  a  sure  antidote  against  the 
effects  of  its  bewitching  sweetness.  The  illusions  which  capti- 
vated his  imagination  never  impaired  his  reasoning  powers.  The 
statesman  was  proof  against  the  splendor,  the  solemnity,  and  the 
romance  which  enchanted  the  poet.  Any  person  who  will  con- 
trast the  sentiments  expressed  in  his  treatises  on  Prelacy  with  the 
exquisite  lines  on  ecclesiastical  architecture  and  music  in  the 
*'  Penseroso,"  which  was  published  about  the  same  time,  will 
understand  our  meaning.     This  is  an  inconsistency  which,  more 

1  Ulysses,  the  hero  of  Homer's  Odyssey. 

2  The  Sirens  were  maidens  who,  as  related  by  Homer,  lived  on  an  island 
in  the  ocean,  to  which  they  lured  passing  mariners  by  their  sweet  songs,  only 
to  destroy  them.  Ulysses,  forewarned  by  Circe,  stuffed  the  ears  of  his  com- 
panions with  wax,  and  had  himself  lashed  to  a  mast,  until  they  had  sailed 
out  of  hearing  of  the  fatal  songs. 

3  A  sorceress  who  by  her  drugs  changed  human  beings  into  wolves,  lions, 
swine,  etc.  She  thus  changed  twenty-two  of  Ulysses'  companions,  but  the 
hero  himself,  having  obtained  from  Mercury  an  antidote  in  the  herb  moly, 
was  proof  against  her  charm. 


MILTON,  8 1 

than  anything  else,  raises  his  character  in  our  estimation,  because 
it  shows  how  many  private  tastes  and  feeHngs  he  sacrificed,  in 
order  to  do  what  he  considered  his  duty  to  mankind.  It  is  the 
very  struggle  of  the  noble  Othello.^  His  heart  relents ;  but  his 
hand  is  firm.  He  does  naught  in  hate,  but  all  in  honor.  He 
kisses  the  beautiful  deceiver  before  he  destroys  her. 

That  from  which  the  public  character  of  Milton  derives  its 
great  and  pecuHar  splendor  still  remains  to  be  mentioned.  If 
he  exerted  himself  to  overthrow  a  forsworn  king  and  a  perse- 
cuting hierarchy,  he  exerted  himself  in  conjunction  with  others. 
But  the  glory  of  the  battle  which  he  fought  for  the  species  of 
freedom  which  is  the  most  valuable,  and  which  was  then  the 
least  understood,  the  freedom  of  the  human  mind,  is  all  his  own. 
Thousands  and  tens  of  thousands  among  his  contemporaries 
raised  their  voices  against  ship  money  and  the  Star  Chamber. 
But  there  were  few  indeed  who  discerned  the  more  fearful  evils 
of  moral  and  intellectual  slavery,  and  the  benefits  which  would 
result  from  the  liberty  of  the  press  and  the  unfettered  exercise  of 
private  judgment.  These  were  the  objects  which  Milton  justly 
conceived  to  be  the  most  important.  He  was  desirous  that  the 
people  should  think  for  themselves  as  well  as  tax  themselves,  and 
should  be  emancipated  from  the  dominion  of  prejudice  as  well 
as  from  that  of  Charles.  He  knew  that  those  who,  with  the  best 
intentions,  overlooked  these  schemes  of  reform,  and  contented 
themselves  with  pulling  down  the  king  and  imprisoning  the 
malignants,  acted  like  the  heedless  brothers  in  his  own  poem, 
who,  in  their  eagerness  to  disperse  the  train  of  the  sorcerer,  neg- 
lected the  means  of  hberating  the  captive.  They  thought  only 
of  conquering  when  they  should  have  thought  of  disenchanting. 

*'  Oh,  ye  mistook,  ye  should  have  snatch'd  his  wand, 
And  bound  him  fast ;  without  his  rod  reversed, 

»  The  hero  of  Shakespeare's  play  of  that  name,  upon  whose  simple  nature 
the  villain  lago  works,  till  he  is  persuaded  that  his  wife  Desdemona  is  false 
to  him. 

6 


82  MACAULAY. 

And  backward  mutters  of  dissevering  power, 
We  cannot  free  the  Lady  that  sits  here 
In  stony  fetters  fix'd,  and  motionless."  ^ 

To  reverse  the  rod,  to  spell  the  charm  backward,  to  break  the 
ties  which  bound  a  stupefied  people  to  the  seat  of  enchantment, 
was  the  noble  aim  of  Milton.  To  this  all  his  public  conduct  was 
directed.  For  this  he  joined  the  Presbyterians ;  for  this  he  for- 
sook them.  He  fought  their  perilous  battle  ;  but  he  turned  away 
with  disdain  from  their  insolent  triumph.  He  saw  that  they, 
like  those  whom  they  had  vanquished,  were  hostile  to  the  liberty 
of  thought.  He  therefore  joined  the  Independents,  and  called 
upon  Cromwell  to  break  the  secular  chain,  and  to  save  free  con- 
science from  the  paw  of  the  Presbyterian  wolf.^  With  a  view 
to  the  same  great  object,  he  attacked  the  licensing  system,^  in 
that  sublime  treatise  which  every  statesman  should  wear  as  a 
sign  upon  his  hand  and  as  frontlets  between  his  eyes.  His 
attacks  were,  in  general,  directed  less  against  particular  abuses 
than  against  those  deeply  seated  errors  on  which  almost  all 
abuses  are  founded,  —  the  servile  worship  of  eminent  men  and 
the  irrational  dread  of  innovation. 

That  he  might  shake  the  foundations  of  these  debasing  senti- 
ments more  effectually,  he  always  selected  for  himself  the  boldest 
literary  services.  He  never  came  up  in  the  rear,  when  the  out- 
works had  been  carried  and  the  breach  entered.  He  pressed 
into  the  forlorn  hope.  At  the  beginning  of  the  changes,  he  wrote 
with  incomparable  energy  and  eloquence  against  the  bishops. 
But,  when  his  opinion  seemed  likely  to  prevail,  he  passed  on  to 
other  subjects,  and  abandoned  prelacy  to  the  crowd  of  writers 
who  now  hastened  to  insult  a  faUing  party.  There  is  no  more 
hazardous  enterprise  than  that  of  bearing  the  torch  of  truth  into 

1  Comus,  lines  815-819. 

2  "  Help  us  to  save  free  conscience  from  the  paw 
Of  hiteling  wolves,  whose  gospel  is  their  maw." 

Milton's  Sonnet  to  CromwelL 
8  See  Introduction,  p.  14. 


MILTON.  ^Z 

those  dark  and  infected  recesses  in  which  no  light  has  ever  shone. 
But  it  was  the  choice  and  the  pleasure  of  Milton  to  penetrate 
the  noisome  vapors,  and  to  brave  the  terrible  explosion.  Those 
who  most  disapprove  of  his  opinions  must  respect  the  hardihood 
with  which  he  maintained  them.  He,  in  general,  left  to  others 
the  credit  of  expounding  and  defending  the  popular  parts  of  his 
religious  and  poHtical  creed.  He  took  his  own  stand  upon  those 
which  the  great  body  of  his  countrymen  reprobated  as  criminal, 
or  derided  as  parodoxical.  He  stood  up  for  divorce  and  regi- 
cide. He  attacked  the  prevaiHng  systems  of  education.  His 
radiant  and  beneficent  career  resembled  that  of  the  god  of  light 
and  fertility :  — 

*^  Nitor  in  adversum  ;  nee  me,  qui  caetera,  vincit 
Impetus,  et  rapido  contrarius  evehor  orbi.'^i 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  the  prose  writings  of  Milton  should, 
in  our  time,  be  so  little  read.  As  compositions,  they  deserve  the 
attention  of  every  man  who  wishes  to  become  acquainted  with 
the  full  power  of  the  English  language.  They  abound  with  pas- 
sages compared  with  which  the  finest  declamations  of  Burke  2 
sink  into  insignificance.  They  are  a  perfect  field  of  cloth  of 
gold.  The  style  is  stiff  with  gorgeous  embroidery.  Not  even 
in  the  earher  books  of  the  ''  Paradise  Lost "  has  the  great  poet 
ever  risen  higher  than  in  those  parts  of  his  controversial  works 
in  which  his  feelings,  excited  by  conflict,  find  a  vent  in  bursts  of 
devotional  and  lyric  rapture.  It  is,  to  borrow  his  own  majestic 
language,  "  a  sevenfold  chorus  of  hallelujahs  and  harping  sym- 
phonies." 

We  had  intended  to  look  more  closely  at  these  performances, 

1  '*  I  contend  against  opposing  circumstances;  that  force  which  subdues 
other  things  affects  me  not,  and  I  am  borne  in  a  direction  contrary  to  the 
swiftly  moving  world." — Ovid's  Metamorphoses^  Book  II.,  lines  72,  73. 

2  Edmund  Burke  (1729-97),  a  distinguished  orator,  statesman,  and  polit- 
ical and  philosophical  writer. 


84  MACAULAY, 

to  analyze  the  peculiarities  of  the  diction,  to  dwell  at  some  length 
on  the  subhme  wisdom  of  the  "  Areopagitica  "  ^  and  the  nervous 
rhetoric  of  the  *'  Iconoclast,"  ^  and  to  point  out  some  of  those 
magnificent  passages  which  occur  in  the  **  Treatise  of  Reforma- 
tion," and  the  '*  Animadversions  on  the  Remonstrant."  But  the 
length  to  which  our  remarks  have  already  extended  renders  this 
impossible. 

We  must  conclude.  And  yet  we  can  scarcely  tear  ourselves 
away  from  the  subject.  The  days  immediately  following  the 
publication  of  this  rehc  of  Milton  appear  to  be  pecuHarly  set 
apart,  and  consecrated  to  his  memory.  And  we  shall  scarcely  be 
censured  if,  on  this  his  festival,  we  be  found  lingering  near  his 
shrine,  how  worthless  soever  may  be  the  offering  which  we  bring 
to  it.  While  this  book  lies  on  our  table,  we  seem  to  be  contem- 
poraries of  the  writer.  We  are  transported  a  hundred  and  fifty 
years  back.  We  can  almost  fancy  that  we  are  visiting  him  in 
his  small  lodging ;  that  we  see  him  sitting  at  the  old  organ  be- 
neath the  faded  green  hangings ;  that  we  can  catch  the  quick 
twinkle  of  his  eyes,  rolling  in  vain  to  find  the  day ;  that  we  are 
reading  in  the  lines  of  his  noble  countenance  the  proud  and 
mournful  history  of  his  glory  and  his  affliction.  We  image  to 
ourselves  the  breathless  silence  in  which  we  should  listen  to  his 
slightest  word ;  the  passionate  veneration  with  which  we  should 
kneel  to  kiss  his  hand  and  weep  upon  it ;  the  earnestness  with 
which  we  should  endeavor  to  console  him,  if  indeed  such  a  spirit 
could  need  consolation,  for  the  neglect  of  an  age  unworthy  of 
his  talents  and  his  virtues ;  the  eagerness  with  which  we  should 
contest  with  his  daughters,  or  with  his  Quaker  friend  Ellwood,^ 
the  privilege  of  reading  Homer  to  him,  or  of  taking  down  the 
immortal  accents  which  flowed  from  his  Hps. 

These  are  perhaps  foolish  feelings.  Yet  we  cannot  be  ashamed 
of  them ;  nor  shall  we  be  sorry  if  what  we  have  written  shall  in 

1  See  Introduction,  p.  14. 

2  See  Introduction,  p.  16. 

3  Thomas  Ellwood.,     See  Introduction,  p.  18. 


MILTON,  85 

any  degree  excite  them  in  other  minds.  We  are  not  much  in 
the  habit  of  idoHzing  either  the  hving  or  the  dead.  And  we 
think  that  there  is  no  more  certain  indication  of  a  weak  and  ill- 
regulated  intellect  than  that  propensity  which,  for  want  of  a 
better  name,  we  will  venture  to  christen  Boswellism.i  But  there 
are  a  few  characters  which  have  stood  the  closest  scrutiny  and 
the  severest  tests,  which  have  been  tried  in  the  furnace  and  have 
proved  pure,  which  have  been  weighed  in  the  balance  and  have 
not  been  found  wanting,  which  have  been  declared  sterling  by 
the  general  consent  of  mankind,  and  which  are  visibly  stamped 
with  the  image  and  superscription  of  the  Most  High.  These 
great  men  we  trust  that  we  know  how  to  prize ;  and  of  these 
was  Milton.  The  sight  of  his  books,  the  sound  of  his  name,  are 
pleasant  to  us.  His  thoughts  resemble  those  celestial  fruits  and 
flowers  which  the  Virgin  Martyr  2  of  Massinger  sent  down  from 
the  gardens  of  Paradise  to  the  earth,  and  which  were  distinguished 
from  the  productions  of  other  soils,  not  only  by  superior  bloom 
and  sweetness,  but  by  miraculous  efficacy  to  invigorate  and  to 
heal.  They  are  powerful,  not  only  to  delight,  but  to  elevate  and 
purify.  Nor  do  we  envy  the  man  who  can  study  either  the  hfe 
or  the  writings  of  the  great  poet  and  patriot,  without  aspiring  to 
emulate,  not  indeed  the  subhme  works  with  which  his  genius  has 
enriched  our  literature,  but  the  zeal  with  which  he  labored  for  the 
pubUc  good,  the  fortitude  with  which  he  endured  every  private 
calamity,  the  lofty  disdain  with  which  he  looked  down  on  tempta- 
tions and  dangers,  the  deadly  hatred  which  he  bore  to  bigots  and 
tyrants,  and  the  faith  which  he  so  sternly  kept  with  his  country 
and  with  his  fame. 

1  From  James  Bos  well,  who  wrote  the  Life  of  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson,  which, 
though  fulsome  in  its  eulogy  of  that  writer,  is  conceded  to  be  the  greatest  of 
all  works  in  biography,  and  is  so  pronounced  by  Macaulay. 

2  A  play  by  Philip  Massinger  (i 554-1640),  one  of  the  Elizabethan  drama- 
tists. 


Eclectic   English   Classics 


Arnold's  (Matthew)  Sohrab  and  Rustum $0.20 

Burke's  Conciliation  with  the  American  Colonies         ...  .20 

Burns's  Poems — Selections .20 

Byron's  Poems — Selections .25 

Carlyle's  Essay  on  Robert  Burns .20 

Chaucer's  Canterbury  Tales — Prologue  and  Knighte's  Tale        .  .25 

Coleridge's  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner .20 

Cooper's  Pilot 40 

Defoe's  History  of  the  Plague  in  London .40 

DeQuincey's  Revolt  of  the  Tartars 20 

Dryden's  Palamon  dnd  Arcite .20 

Emerson's  American  Scholar,  Self  Reliance,  and  Compensation  .20 

Franklin's  Autobiography .35 

George  Eliot's  Silas  Marner .30 

Goldsmith's  Vicar  of  Wakefield .35 

Gray's  Poems — Selections  .........  .20 

Irving's  Sketch  Book — Selections .20 

Tales  of  a  Traveler .50 

Macaulay's  Second  Essay  on  Chatham         .....  .20 

Essay  on  Milton .20 

Essay  on  Addison       ........  .20 

Life  of  Samuel  Johnson .20 

Milton's  L* Allegro,  II  Penseroso,  Comus,  and  Lycidas        .         .  .20 

Paradise  Lost — Books  I.  and  II. .20 

Pope's  Homer's  Iliad,  Books  I.,  VI.,  XXII.  and  XXIV.  .         .  .20 

Rape  of  the  Lock,  and  Essay  on  Man  ....  .20 

Scott's  Ivanhoe .50 

Marmion .40 

Lady  of  the  Lake .30 

The  Abbot 60 

Woodstock 60 

Shakespeare's  Julius  Caesar .20 

Twelfth  Night 20 

Merchant  of  Venice •         .  .20 

Midsummer-Night's  Dream .20 

As  You  Like  It 20 

Macbeth 20 

Hamlet 25 

Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  Papers  (The  Spectator)    ....  .20 

Southey's  Life  of  Nelson .40 

Tennyson's  Princess .20 

Webster's  Bunker  Hill  Orations 20 

Wordsworth's  Poems — Selections .20 


Copies  senty  prepaid ^  to  any  address  on  receipt  of  the  price, 

American   Book  Company 

New  York  ♦  Cincinnati  ♦  Chicago 

(95) 


Rolfe's  English  Classics 

Designed  for  use  in  High  Schools  and  other  Secondary- 
Schools.  Edited  by  William  J.  Rolfe,  Litt.  D., 
formerly  Head   Master,  High  School,  Cambridge,  Mass. 

Uniform  flexible  cloth,  i2mo,  illustrated  ...  56  cents  each 

Published  in  uniform  style  and  binding  with  Rolfe's  Edition  of  Shakespeare. 

BROWNING'S  SELECT  POEMS 

Containing  twenty  Selected  Poems  with  Introduction,  Sketch  of  the 
Life  of  Browning,  Chronological  Table  of  his  works,  a  list  of  the 
books  most  useful  in  the  Study  of  Browning,  and  criticism  by 
Swinburne,  Dowden,  Lowell,  Morley,  Ruskin,  Furnivall,  and  others. 

BROWNING'S  DRAMAS 

Containing  "A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon,"  "Colcombe's  Birthday," 
and  "A  Soul's  Tragedy" — with  Introduction  and  Notes. 

GOLDSMITH'S  SELECT   POEMS 

Containing  "  The  Traveler,"  "  The  Deserted  Village,"  and  "  Retal- 
iation." With  copious  critical  and  explanatory  Notes,  Biography  of 
Goldsmith,  and  selections  from  memoirs  of  the  poet  by  Thackeray, 
George  Coleman  the  Younger,  Campbell,  Forster,  and  Irving. 

GRAY'S  SELECT   POEMS 

Containing  the  "Elegy  Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard,"  and 
Odes  "  On  the  Spring,"  "  On  the  Death  of  a  Favorite  Cat,"  "  On  a 
Distant  Prospect  of  Eton  College,"  ''The  Progress  of  Poesy,"  "The 
Bard,"  and  "  To  Adversity" — with  the  history  of  each  poem  and 
copious  Notes.  The  Introduction  contains  Robert  Carruther's  Life 
of  Gray  and  William  Howitt's  description  of  Stoke-Pogis. 

MILTON'S    MINOR    POEMS 

Containing  all  of  Milton's  Minor  Poems  except  his  "  translations." 
The  book  also  includes  biographical  and  critical  Introductions  and 
nearly  one  hundred  pages  of  historical  and  explanatory  Notes. 

MACAULAY'S   LAYS  OF  ANCIENT   ROME 

Containing  "Horatius,"  "The  Battle  of  Lake  Regillus,"  "Virginia," 
and  "The  Prophecy  of  Capys."  The  Introduction  includes  the 
Author's  Preface,  John  Staurt  Mill's  Review,  and  Professor  Henry 
Morley's  Introduction  to  the  "  Lays." 

WORDSWORTH'S  SELECT   POEMS 

Containing  "We  are  Seven,"  "The  Complaint  of  a  Forsaken  Indian 
Woman,"  "The  Fountain,"  "The  Two  April  Mornings,"  "Heart- 
Leap  Well,"  "The  Leech  Gatherer,"  "Yarrow  Unvisited,"  "Ode 
on  Intimations  of  Immortality,"  "  Laodamia,"  "Yarrow  Visited," 
"Yarrow  Re-visited,"  etc.,  with  full  Notes.  Illustrated  by  Abbey, 
Parsons,  and  other  famous  artists. 

Copies  of  Rolfe's  Select   Classics  will  be  sent,  prepaid,  to   any  address 
on  receipt  of  the  price. 

American   Book  Company 

New  York  ♦  Cincinnati  ♦  Chicago 

(96) 


Rolfe's  Edition  of  Shakespeare 

In  Forty  Volumes 

Edited  for  Schools  with  Notes  by  William  J.  Rolfe,  Litt.D., 
Formerly  Head  Master  of  the  High  School,  Cambridge,  Mass. 


Merchant  of  Venice 

Henry  VI.     Part  1. 

Tennpest 

Henry  VI.     Part  II. 

Midsunnmer-Night's  Dream 

Henry  VI.     Part  III. 

As  You  Like  It 

Henry  VIII. 

Much  Ado  About  Nothing 

Romeo  and  Juliet 

Twelfth   Night 

Macbeth 

Comedy  of  Errors 

Hamlet 

Merry  Wives  of  Windsor 

Othello 

Love's  Labour's  Lost 

King  Lear 

Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona 

Cymbeline 

The  Taming  of  the  Shrew 

Julius  Caesar 

All's  Well  That  Ends  Well 

Coriolanus 

Measure  for  Measure 

Antony  and  Cleopatra 

Winter's  Tale 

Timon  of  Athens 

King  John 

Troilus  and  Cressida 

Richard   II. 

Pericles 

Richard    III. 

The  Two  Noble   Kinsmen 

Henry  IV.     Part  1. 

Titus  Andronicus 

Henry  IV.     Part  II. 

Venus  and  Adonis 

Henry  V. 

Sonnets 

Uniformly  bound  in  flexible  cloth. 

i2mo,  illustrated     .     each  56 

cents 

LAMB'S  TALES  FROM    SHAKESPEARE 

Edited  by  Dr.  William  J.  Rolfe. 
Comedies.  Cloth,  i2mo,  240  pages,  illustrated  .  50  cents 
Includes  tales  from  the  following  Comedies  :  "  The  Tempest;  " 
*'A  Midsummer-Night's  Dream;"  "  Much  Ado  About  Nothing;" 
"As  You  Like  It;  "  "  The  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona;"  "The 
Merchant  of  Venice;"  "The  Comedy  of  Errors;"  "Twelfth 
Night;  "  "  The  Taming  of  the  Shrew;  "   "  The  Winter's  Tale." 

Tragedies.      Cloth,  i2mo,  270  pages,  illustrated  .         50  cents 

Includes  tales  from  the  following  Tragedies:  "Cymbeline;" 
"Romeo  and  Juliet;"  "Pericles,  Prince  of  Troy;"  "Timon  of 
Athens;"  "King  Lear;"  "Macbeth;"  "Othello;"  "Hamlet, 
Prince  of  Denmark." 


Copies  of  Rolfe  s  Edition  of  Shakespeare  or  Lamb's  Tales  will  be  sent^ 
prepaid^  to  any  address  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


American   Book  Company 


New  York 
(97) 


Cincinnati 


Chicago 


Text- Books  in  English 

BUEHLER'S  PRACTICAL  EXERCISES  IN  ENGLISH 

By  H.  G.  BUEHLER,  Master  in  English  in  the  Hotchkiss  School. 

Cloth,  i2mo,  152  pages 50  cents 

A  drill-book  for  Grammar  Schools  and  High  Schools,  containing  a 
large  number  of  exercises  to  be  worked  out  by  the  student,  with  many 
definitions  and  discriminations  in  regard  to  the  choice  of  words.  The 
pupil  is  made  to  choose  between  the  correct  and  incorrect  forms  of 
expression  and  to  explain  why  he  has  done  so.  By  this  means  he 
strengthens  his  own  power  of  discrimination  and  acquires  the  principle 
of  avoiding  mistakes  rather  than  correcting  them. 

BUTLER'S  SCHOOL   ENGLISH 

By  George  P.  Butler,   formerly   English   Master  in   the   Law- 

renceville  School,  Lawrenceville,  N.  J. 

Cloth,  i2mo,  272  pages 75  cents 

A  brief,  concise,  and  thoroughly  practical  manual  for  use  in  connec- 
tion with  the  written  English  work  of  Secondary  Schools.  It  has  been 
prepared  specially  to  secure  definite  results  in  the  study  of  English, 
by  showing  the  pupil  how  to  review,  criticise,  and  improve  his  own 
writing.  The  book  is  based  on  the  following  plan  for  teaching  English: 
(i)  The  study  and  discussion  of  selections  from  standard  English 
authors,  (2)  constant  practice  in  composition,  (3)  the  study  of  rhetoric 
for  the  purpose  of  cultivating  the  pupil's  power  of  criticising  and 
improving  his  own  writing. 

SWINTON'S  SCHOOL   COMPOSITION 

By  William  Swinton.  Cloth,  i2mo,  113  pages  .  32  cents 
Prepared  to  meet  the  demand  for  a  school  manual  of  prose  com- 
position of  medium  size,  arranged  on  a  simple  and  natural  plan,  and 
designed  not  to  teach  the  theory  of  style  and  criticism  but  to  give 
pupils  in  Intermediate  or  Grammar  School  grades  a  fair  mastery  of  the 
art  of  writing  good  English. 


Copies  of  any  of  the  above  books  will  be  sent,  postpaid^   on   receipt  of 
the  price  by  the  Publishers  : 

American   Book  Company 

New  York  ♦  Cincinnati  ♦  Chicago 

(86) 


Text-Books  in  Rhetoric 


By  ADAMS   SHERMAN    HILL, 
Boylston  Professor  of  Rhetoric  and  Oratory  in  Harvard  University. 

HILL'S  FOUNDATIONS  OF   RHETORIC 

For  High  Schools  and  other  Secondary  Schools    ,         .         .     $1.00 

The  object  of  this  book  is  to  train  boys  and  girls  to  say  in 
written  language,  correctly,  clearly,  and  effectively,  what  they  have  to 
say.  It  takes  cognizance  of  faults  such  as  those  who  are  to  use  it  are 
likely  to  commit,  either  from  ignorance  or  from  imitation  of  bad  models, 
and  of  merits  such  as  are  within  their  reach.  It  gives  a  minimum  of 
space  to  technicalities  and  a  maximum  of  space  to  essentials.  It  covers 
the  middle  ground  between  the  work  of  the  grammar  school  and  the 
theoretical  rhetoric  of  the  college  course.  In  language  singularly  direct 
and  simple  it  sets  forth  fundamental  principles  of  correct  speaking, 
and  accompanies  each  rule  with  abundant  illustrations  and  examples, 
drawn  from  practical  sources.  It  gives  precisely  the  kind  of  training 
which  young  minds  need  to  enable  them  to  discriminate  between  good 
and  bad  forms  of  English.  The  work  comprises  an  Introduction,  giving 
a  short  but  remarkably  clear  outline  of  English  grammar;  Part  I.,  on 
Words;  Part  II.,  on  Sentences;  Part  III.,  on  Paragraphs;  and  an 
Appendix  on  Punctuation. 

HILL'S    PRINCIPLES   OF    RHETORIC 

For  Academies  and  Colleges         .         .         .         .         .         .     $1.20 

This  popular  work  has  been  almost  wholly  rewritten,  and  is  enlarged 
by  the  addition  of  important  new  material.  The  treatment  is  based  on 
the  principle  that  the  function  of  rhetoric  is  not  to  provide  the  student  of 
composition  with  materials  for  thought,  nor  yet  to  lead  him  to  cultivate 
style  for  style's  sake,  but  to  stimulate  and  train  his  powers  of  expres- 
sion— to  enable  him  to  say  what  he  has  to  say  in  appropriate  language, 
and  that  rhetoric  should  be  studied  at  school  and  in  college,  not  as  a 
science,  but  as  an  art  with  practical  ends  in  view.  By  supplying 
deficiencies  that  time  has  disclosed,  making  rough  places  smooth,  and 
adopting  the  treatment  of  each  topic  to  present  needs,  the  book  in  its 
revised  form  has  been  made  more  serviceable  for  advanced  students  of 
English  composition. 


Copies  of  either  of  the  above  books  will  be  sent,  prepaid,  to  any  address 
071  receipt  of  the  price. 

American   Book  Company 

New  York  ♦  Cincinnati  ♦  Chicago 

(87) 


Practical   Rhetoric 

A  Rational  and  Comprehensive  Text-Book  for  the  use  of 
High  Schools  and  Colleges.  By  John  Duncan 
QuACKENBOS,  A.M.,  M.D.,  Emeritus  Professor  of 
Rhetoric  in  Columbia  University. 


Cloth,  i2mo,  477  pages.     Price,  $i.oo 


'  I  ^HIS  work  differs  materially  from  all  other  text-books 
of  rhetoric  both  in  plan  and  method  of  treatment. 
It  first  develops,  in  a  perfectly  natural  manner,  the  laws 
and  principles  which  underlie  rhetorical  art,  and  then 
shows  their  use  and  practical  application  in  the  different 
processes  and  kinds  of  composition.  The  book  is  clear, 
simple,  and  logical  in  its  treatment,  original  in  its  depar- 
ture from  technical  rules  and  traditions,  copiously  illus- 
trated with  examples,  and  calculated  in  every  way  to 
awaken  interest  and  enthusiasm  in  the  study.  A  large 
part  of  the  book  is  devoted  to  instruction  and  practice  in 
actual  composition  work  in  which  the  pupil  is  encouraged 
to  follow  and  apply  genuine  laboratory  methods. 

The  lessons  are  so  arranged  that  the  whole  course, 
including  the  outside  constructive  work,  may  be  satisfac- 
torily completed  in  a  single  school  yeaf. 


Copies  of  Quackenbos  s  Practical  Rhetoric  will  be  sent  prepaid  to 
any  address^  on  receipt  of  the  price,  by  the  Publishers.  Correspondence 
relating  to  terms  for  introduction  is  cordially  invited. 

American    Book   Company 

New  York  ♦  Cincinnati  ♦  Chicago 

(88) 


A  History  of  English  Literature 

By  REUBEN   POST  HALLECK,  M.A.  (Yale) 
Cloth,  12mo,  499  pages.       With  numerous  illustrations.       Price  $1.25. 


Kalleck's  History  of  English  Literature  is  a  concise  and  interesting 
text-book  of  the  history  and  development  of  English  literature  from  the 
earliest  times  to  the  present.  While  this  work  is  sufficiently  simple  to 
be  readily  comprehended  by  high  school  students,  the  treatment  is  not 
only  philosophic,  but  also  stimulating  and  suggestive,  and  v^ill  naturally 
lead  to  original  thinking. 

The  book  is  a  history  of  literature  and  not  a  mere  collection  of  bio- 
graphical sketches.  Only  enough  of  the  facts  of  an  author's  life  are 
given  to  make  students  interested  in  him  as  a  personality,  and  to  show 
how  his  environment  affected  his  work.  The  author  s  productions,  their 
relation  to  the  age,  and  the  reasons  why  they  hold  a  position  in  literature, 
receive  treatment  commensurate  with  their  importance. 

One  of  the  most  striking  features  of  the  work  consists  in  the  way  in 
which  literary  movements  are  clearly  outlined  at  the  beginning  of  each  of 
the  chapters.  Special  attention  is  given  to  the  essential  qualities  which 
differentiate  one  period  from  another,  and  to  the  animating  spirit  of  each 
age.  The  author  shows  that  each  period  has  contributed  something 
definite  to  the  literature  of  England,  either  in  laying  characteristic  foun- 
dations, in  presenting  new  ideals,  in  improving  literary  form,  or  in 
widening  the  circle  of  human  thought. 

At  the  end  of  each  chapter  a  carefully  prepared  list  of  books  is  given 
to  direct  the  student  in  studying  the  "original  works  of  the  authors 
treated.  He  is  told  not  only  what  to  read,  but  also  where  to  find  it  at 
the  least  cost. 

The  book  contains  as  a  frontispiece  a  Literary  Map  of  England  in 
colors,  showing  the  counties,  the  birthplaces,  the  homes,  and  the  haunts 
of  the  chief  authors,  specially  prepared  for  this  work. 


Copies  of  Halleck^s  History  of  English  Literature  will  be  sent,  prepaid, 
to  any  address  on  receipt  of  price. 

American   Book  Company 

New  York  ♦  Cincinnati  ♦  Chicago 

(90)- 


An    Introduction  to  the 

Study    of    American    Literature 


BRANDER    MATTHEWS 

Professor   of   Literature   in   Columbia    University 

Cloth,  12mo,  256  pages        -         -        -         Price,  $1.00 


A  text-book  of  literature  on  an  orig^inal  plan,  and  conforming  with 
the  best  methods  of  teaching. 

Admirably  designed  to  guide,  to  supplement,  and  to  stimulate  the 
student's  reading  of  American  authors. 

Illustrated  with  a  fine  collection  of  facsimile  manuscripts,  portraits 
of  authors,  and  views  of  their  homes  and  birthplaces. 
^         Bright,  clear,  and  fascinating,  it  is  itself  a  literary  work  of  high  rank. 

The  book  consists  mostly  of  delightfully  readable  and  yet  compre- 
hensive little  biographies  of  the  fifteen  greatest  and  most  representative 
American  writers.  Each  of  the  sketches  contains  a  critical  estimate  of 
the  author  and  his  works,  which  is  the  more  valuable  coming,  as  it  does, 
from  one  who  is  himself  a  master.  The  work  is  rounded  out  by  four 
general  chapters  which  take  up  other  prominent  authors  and  discuss  the 
history  and  conditions  of  our  literature  as  a  whole  ;  and  there  is  at  the 
end  of  the  book  a  complete  chronology  of  the  best  American  literature 
from  the  beginning  down  to  1896. 

Each  of  the  fifteen  biographical  sketches  is  illustrated  by  a  fine 
portrait  of  its  subject  and  views  of  his  birthplace  or  residence  and  in 
some  cases  of  both.  They  are  also  accompanied  by  each  author's 
facsimile  manuscript  covering  one  or  two  pages.  The  book  contains 
excellent  portraits  of  many  other  authors  famous  in  American  literature. 


Copies  of  Brander  Matthews^  Introduction  to  the  Study  of  American 
Literature  will  be  sent  prepaid  to  any  address^  on  receipt  of  the  price ^ 
by  the  Publishers  : 

American   Book  Company 

New  York  ♦  Cincinnati  ♦  Chicago 

(9X) 


American    Literature 

BY 

MILDRED  CABELL  WATKINS 

Flexible  cloth,  18mo,  224  pages        -        -         Price,  35  cents 


THE  eminently  practical  character  of  this  work  will 
at  once  commend  it  to  all  who  are  interested  in 
forming  and  guiding  the  literary  tastes  of  the  young, 
and  especially  to  teachers  who  have  long  felt  the  need  of  a 
satisfactory  text-book  in  American  literature  which  will 
give  pupils  a  just  appreciation  of  its  character  and  worth 
as  compared  with  the  literature  of  other  countries.  In 
this  convenient  volume  the  story  of  American  literature  is 
told  to  young  Americans  in  a  manner  which  is  at  once 
brief,  simple,  graceful,  and,  at  the  same  time,  impressive 
and  intelligible.  The  marked  features  and  characteristics 
of  this  work  may  be  stated  as  follows  : 

Due  prominence  is  given  to  the  works  of  the  real  makers  of  our 
American  literature. 

All  the  leading  authors  are  grouped  in  systematic  order  and  classes. 

Living  writers,  including  minor  authors,  are  also  given  their  proper 
share  of  attention. 

A  brief  summary  is  appended  to  each  chapter  to  aid  the  memory  in 
fixing  the  salient  facts  of  the  narrative. 

Estimates  of  the  character  and  value  of  an  author's  productions  are 
often  crystallized  in  a  single  phrase,  so  quaint  and  expressive  that  it  is 
not  easily  forgotten  by  the  reader. 

Numerous  select  extracts  from  our  greatest  writers  are  given  in  their 
proper  connection. 

Copies  of  Watkins's  American   Literature  will  be  sent  prepaid  by  the 
publishers  on  receipt  of  the  price. 

American    Book   Company 

New  York  ♦  Cincinnati  ♦  Chicago 

(92) 


-TvETsa^sWiV^rT^^'' 


t 


ONE  MONTH  USE 

PLEASE  RETURN  TO  DESK 
FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

EDUCATION-PSYCHOLOGY 
LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

1 -month  loans  may  be  renewed  by  calling  642-4209 

Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made  4  days  prior 

to  due  date. 

ALL  BOOKS  ARE  SUBJECT  TO  RECALL  7  DAYS 

AFTER  DATE  CHECKED  OUT. 


SEP  25  1975 

OCT  6    REC'D-9AM 

LD  21A-30m-5,'75 
(S5877L) 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


VB  37002 


